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After getting off the bus, Mr. Yi spat on the butt of the bus which was getting smaller and smaller. He picked up two snakeskin bags and came back to celebrate the New Year, as if he was wearing good clothes for fear that others would not see it. His cheek had long turned into a piece of money paper, yellow and dry. The village committee office building stands tall and powerful like a command tower beside the village road. Three crows were pecking at a fluffy crow carcass. A stupid goose stretched its neck that was destined to be slaughtered, opened and closed its mouth, and screamed non-stop, smelling bad. Before he had even taken a few steps away, the faint smell of filter smoke, mixed with the pungent smell of garlic and the scent of a woman's rouge body, drifted into his nostrils. This is the taste of the village chief. There was a man in front of me with thin hands and feet, blocking the road like a big grasshopper. He must be the village chief. His tall shadow fell backwards and pressed on Old Man Yi's body.

Auntie is still crying, saying that after your father drank the medicine and lay in the coffin, the effects of the medicine have not fully taken effect yet, and there is still a little extra time. He simply climbed out of the coffin, tidied the vegetable garden again, and moved trees. I made incense myself, lit candles, and burned paper money. He returned a hoe to his neighbor. Stack up the cardboard boxes of the finished firecrackers so that my son can sell them for money. When he started foaming at the mouth, my father lay down again. I asked my aunt for help. The father fulfilled his son's filial piety. After the coffin was buried, no wonder some people said they heard beating sounds inside the coffin. In fact, I, too, heard it.