<p class="ql-block"><b>五服</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>文：崔光芬</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>這在老家的輩分排序里，從來不是問題。我們家輩分高，村里那些“提溜孫”見了我，該叫姑奶奶的，照樣得叫姑奶奶。輩分是輩分，性別是性別，兩回事。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>我自幼離開祖籍地，對老家的概念，一直很模糊。只知道在湖北襄陽，有個叫尹集青龍崗的地方。只知道我們家輩分高，村里有些比我年紀(jì)大的人，按輩分得叫我姑，甚至叫姑奶奶。我媽管這叫“提溜孫”，我不明白是什么意思，只覺得是個有趣的說法。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>真正讓我開始想弄明白的，是一個詞：五服。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>長輩常說，誰誰誰和咱們家沒出五服。我鬧不明白這關(guān)系，只知道好像往上數(shù)幾代，是一家人。但往上數(shù)幾代是誰？不知道。長什么樣？不知道。埋在哪里？也不知道。我就是這么個斷了線的風(fēng)箏。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>直到今年，一個偶然的機(jī)會。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>我早已遠(yuǎn)離祖籍地，卻通過網(wǎng)絡(luò)，云游回到了那個從未真正生活過的故鄉(xiāng)。有熱心的街坊拍了視頻發(fā)給我。透過一方小小的手機(jī)屏幕，我第一次“見”到了老宅——那是我爺爺留下的房子，土改后分給了別人，但房子已殘破不堪。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>鏡頭里，老宅的梁木雖然裸露，但房基石縫里那眼“青龍泉”依然在清澈流淌。我想起奶奶曾在那泉邊，用清甜的活水淘米、煨藕、炸藕丸子。我這身在海外復(fù)刻的廚藝，原來竟是從這眼泉水里偷學(xué)來的。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>我第一次“見”到了祖父母的墳塋，就在青龍崗上離清涼寺遺址不遠(yuǎn)，荒草萋萋，但墳還在。隔著屏幕，看著那些陌生又熟悉的土地，聽著街坊和族人用鄉(xiāng)音聊著我家的舊人舊事，那種感覺很奇妙。近在咫尺，遠(yuǎn)在天涯。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>有一個故事，是家人講給我聽的。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>我爺爺是商人和鄉(xiāng)紳。上世紀(jì)三十年代中期，遭了土匪，被劫財受傷，不久就去世了。到了文革，村里有些激進(jìn)分子要去刨我爺爺?shù)膲?。那時候，我家早已家道中落，我父親遠(yuǎn)在異地，根本無力保護(hù)什么。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>但墳沒被刨成。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>阻止他們的，是土改后占了我家老宅的兩戶人家——崔光禮和崔光明兄弟。他們當(dāng)年是我爺爺?shù)牡钁?，按族譜算，沒出五服。那兄弟倆站在墳前，對激進(jìn)分子說：“人家的子孫都在，兒子雖在外地，也不能刨墳?！?lt;/b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>就這一句話，墳保住了。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>我想起這個故事的時候，已是大洋彼岸的深夜。我的孩子們在另外的房間，用英文討論他們的論文。中文是他們的第二語言，讀不懂我寫的這些關(guān)于老家的文字，需要譯成英文，才能明白他們的母親在感慨什么。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>這可笑嗎？不，一點(diǎn)也不。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>多年以后，我的父母帶著兄弟姐妹們專程回老家，給爺爺奶奶立了碑。那時我一家在海外，沒能趕上。前幾天云游青龍崗，隔著屏幕，我第一次見到了那通碑。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>那兩個佃戶兄弟，和我在血緣上沒出五服。而在那個瘋狂的年代，他們替我家守住了五服最后的體面。他們讓我明白，五服不是一個由親疏遠(yuǎn)近劃定的圈，而是一條由道義和恩情擰成的繩。它串起的不只是血緣，還有人與人之間那個最樸素的理：人家子孫都在，不能刨人家祖墳。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>我明白自己為什么總是惦記那口排骨燉藕的味道，因?yàn)槟桥菏乔帻埲B(yǎng)的，而那泉水流過的土地，曾被這樣樸素的善意守護(hù)過。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>我至今不知道青龍崗大多數(shù)人是誰，和我是啥關(guān)系。我只知道幾個人的名字：姑表哥、叔伯堂兄弟。我只知道幾段故事：爺爺被土匪劫財、佃戶護(hù)墳、我在海外隔著屏幕看老宅。但這幾個名字，幾段故事，就是我的五服。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>血緣那張網(wǎng)，到我這兒確實(shí)是斷了。我的孩子們永遠(yuǎn)不會理解什么叫“提溜孫”，他們甚至需要翻譯才能讀懂我的鄉(xiāng)愁。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>但故事這根線，我續(xù)上了。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>那兄弟倆用一句話替我續(xù)上了。我用這些文字替我孩子們續(xù)上了。將來有一天，他們也許會指著這篇譯成英文的文章，對他們的孩子說：看，這是你奶奶寫的，她的老家在中國，在湖北襄陽一個叫尹集青龍崗的地方。很久以前，那兩個佃戶良心發(fā)現(xiàn)，護(hù)住了咱家祖墳。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>那里還有一眼至今流動的泉，那是我們家族從未枯竭的魂。</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>這，就是我的五服。</b></p> <p class="ql-block"><b>Five Degrees of Kinship (Wu Fu)</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>By Cui Guangfen</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>In the generational hierarchy of my hometown, my position was never in doubt. Our family branch holds a senior rank; even the elders in the village, if they fall into the younger generation's "grandchild" tier, must call me "Great-Aunt." In our tradition, lineage is one thing, and age is another.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>I left my ancestral land as a child. For a long time, the concept of "home" was a blur. All I knew was a place called Yinji Qinglonggang in Xiangyang, Hubei. I knew our family stood high in the generational line, and that people much older than me technically had to address me as an aunt or even a great-aunt. My mother called these younger-generation elders "Tiliusun" (Dangling Grandsons). I didn't quite understand it then; it just sounded like a curious folk term.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>But there was one term that truly began to haunt me: Wu Fu (The Five Degrees of Kinship).</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>My elders often said, "So-and-so is within our Wu Fu." I couldn't grasp the complexity of it. I only knew that if you traced back several generations, we were one family. But who were those ancestors? What did they look like? Where were they buried? I didn't know. I was like a kite with a severed string.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>Until this year, by a stroke of chance.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>Through the internet, I "traveled" back to the hometown I never truly lived in. A kind neighbor filmed a video for me. Through the tiny screen of my phone, I saw our ancestral house for the first time. It was the house my grandfather left behind, later redistributed to others during the Land Reform. Now, it stands in ruins. Yet, I saw a spring—the Qinglong Spring—still flowing crystal clear from the stone foundation, just as it did when my grandmother used its water to slow-cook lotus root soup and teach me her recipes. For the first time, I saw my grandparents' graves on the hill near the ruins of Qinglong Temple, overgrown with wild grass, but still there.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>There is a story my family told me.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>My grandfather was a merchant and a member of the local gentry. In the mid-1930s, he was injured during a bandit raid and passed away shortly after. During the chaotic years of the Cultural Revolution, some radicals wanted to desecrate and dig up his grave. By then, our family had long fallen from its former status. My father was living far away and had no power to protect anything.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>But the grave was saved.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>The people who stood their ground were the two brothers, Cui Guangli and Cui Guangming, who had moved into our ancestral house after the Land Reform. They were once my grandfather’s tenant farmers, and according to the genealogy, they were within our "Five Degrees of Kinship." The two brothers stood before the grave and told the radicals: "Their descendants still exist. Though the son is away, you cannot desecrate this grave."</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>With that single sentence, the grave was preserved.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>When I recalled this story, it was late at night on the other side of the ocean. My children were in the other room, discussing their university papers in English. Mandarin is their second language; they cannot fully grasp these words about my hometown. I have to translate them so they can understand what their mother is feeling.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>Is this ironic? No, not at all.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>Years later, my parents and siblings made a special trip back to the village to erect a tombstone for my grandparents. My family was overseas then and couldn't make it. A few days ago, while "cloud-traveling" through Qinglonggang, I saw that monument through my screen for the first time.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>Those two brothers, the former tenants, were tied to me by blood within the "Five Degrees." In that era of madness, they defended the final dignity of our lineage. They taught me that Wu Fu is not just a circle defined by biological distance, but a rope twisted from morality and gratitude. It binds more than just blood; it binds the most fundamental human principle: As long as the descendants remain, the ancestors' rest must not be disturbed.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>I still don't know most of the people in Qinglonggang. I only know a few names and a few stories: my grandfather’s tragedy, the tenants who guarded the grave, and my own journey watching the old house through a screen. But these names and stories—this is my Wu Fu.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>The web of blood may have frayed by the time it reached me. My children may never truly understand the term "Tiliusun," and they need a translation to read my nostalgia. But the thread of the story—I have reconnected it.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>Those two brothers reconnected it with one sentence. I am reconnecting it for my children with these words. One day, they might point to this translation and tell their own children: "Look, your grandmother wrote this. Her home was in China, at a place called Qinglonggang. Long ago, those two tenant farmers had a change of heart and protected our family's ancestral graves."</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>There is a spring there that still flows today. It is the unyielding soul of our family.</b></p><p class="ql-block"><b>This is my Wu Fu.</b></p>