Calling mother is too heavy

Author: Zhang Ailing Bi Shumin Liu Yong
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-01-01
Features: When I am old, I am no longer the same as before. Please reach out your young and strong hand to help me, just like I helped you when you were learning to walk as a child. When you see the aging me, please don’t be sad. Understand me, support me, just like I did when you were just beginning to learn how to live. I once guided you on the path of life, now please accompany me on the last road. There is always someone in the world, no matter how poor or rich you are, no matter how successful or unsuccessful you become, she belongs to you. She accompanies you in your misfortunes, watches over you in your triumphs, and when you have nothing left, if you turn around, you will find that she stands behind you, gazing at you. She is the glory and pride of everything you have—your mother. Whenever I write about mother, my pen walks on its knees. If mother is a fish, she would shed her scales to make clothes for her children. —Poet / Sang Hengchang
Every traveler’s starting point is always a farewell to their mother, and their destination is old age. The cry of an elderly person calling out "Mom" is something that moves the heart—it summarizes both return and wandering. —Writer / Yu Qiu
After reading this book, my heart felt as if it were being pricked. I feel as if my name is truly a waste of carrying the character for "filial piety." —Netizen / Zhong Xiao
Tears flow like rain, mother’s love is as high as the sky. Women may be weak, but they become strong when they are mothers. —Writer and poet / Ye Fu
There is always someone in the world, no matter how poor or rich you are, no matter how successful or unsuccessful you become, she belongs to you. She accompanies you in your misfortunes, watches over you in your triumphs, and when you have nothing left, if you turn around, you will find that she stands behind you, gazing at you. She is the glory and pride of everything you have—your mother.
In 2006, with the widespread dissemination of Crazy Mother, the rare sentiment of selfless love in our time quietly returned. Of course, this is the hope of the book’s editors and a possible expectation. For too long, the space of thought has been occupied by the market, irony, mockery, and indifference. Religious redemption has become useless. What may awaken the passion in our hearts is perhaps the faint tears in a mother’s eyes. The 88 love inscriptions on motherhood collected in this book are the loudest cries in the desert of emotions.