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爷爷的梯子和最高那颗柿子
院子里的柿子树是爷爷年轻时栽的，到我记事起，它年年秋天都红。霜降一过，叶子落干净，满树的柿子像挂了一树的小灯笼。那天放学回家，爷爷已经在墙根架梯子，梯子是他自己用木杠钉的，横档被几十年的手磨得发亮。他把篮子往腰后一别，回头冲我喊：去洗手，今天给你摘个够。
我搬了个小凳坐在树下看他爬。梯子有点晃，爷爷爬得慢，一级一级踩实了才往上挪。我在下面伸手扶着梯子腿，手心全是汗。爷爷站在半树中间，挑柿子看得比谁都细：皮绷得亮、顶上有小尖的那种才进篮；摸起来软了的，他摘下来直接递到我手里，说这个现在就能吃。我捧着那个软柿子，从蒂上撕开一个小口，吸一口，甜得眯眼。爷爷在上头看见了，说慢点吃，没人跟你抢，树上还多着呢。
树梢上还有最后一颗，比别的都大，红得发透，长在最高的枝丫上。爷爷往上又挪了两级，梯子吱呀响了一声，我在下面吓得喊爷爷下来吧。他在上头稳稳站住，一只手攥着枝子，另一只手一拧一托，那颗柿子就落进他掌心里。他下来的时候膝盖有点抖，坐在小凳上歇了好一会儿，把那颗最大的柿子放进篮子最上面，说这个留给你奶，她年年就等这一口。
篮子装满了，红彤彤堆成小山，爷爷一手提篮一手牵我往屋走。路上他说，这树是他盖房那年栽的，他摘了一辈子柿子，今年这篮是他摘得最顺的一回。我知道不是树顺，是他今年特意把最难的几颗留给自己上树。晚上奶奶把软柿子拌了糯米蒸糕，屋里全是甜香。我坐在灶边想，秋天最好的收成不在篮子里，在爷爷下梯子时朝我笑的那一下。
Grandpa's Ladder and the Highest Persimmon
The persimmon tree in the yard was planted by my grandfather when he was young. As far back as I can remember, it has turned red every autumn. After the Frost Descent, the leaves fall clean, and the whole tree hangs with small lanterns. That day when I came home from school, grandfather had already set the ladder against the wall. The ladder was one he had nailed himself from wooden bars, its rungs polished bright by decades of hands. He hooked the basket behind his waist, turned and called to me: go wash your hands, today I will pick you all you want.
I dragged a small stool and sat under the tree to watch him climb. The ladder wobbled a little, and grandfather climbed slowly, testing each rung solid before moving up. Below, I held the ladder legs with both hands, my palms all sweat. Standing in the middle of the tree, he inspected the persimmons more carefully than anyone: only ones with taut shiny skin and a small point on top went into the basket; the soft ones he picked and handed straight to me, saying this one is ready now. I cupped that soft persimmon, tore a small hole at the stem, and sucked a mouthful, so sweet my eyes squinted. Grandfather saw it from up in the tree and said, eat slowly, no one is racing you, there are plenty more on the tree.
The last one sat at the treetop, bigger than all the rest, red through and through, growing on the highest fork. Grandfather moved up two more rungs; the ladder creaked once, and I shouted from below for him to come down. He planted himself firmly up there, gripped a branch with one hand, and with a twist and a lift the persimmon fell into his palm. When he came down his knees shook a little, and he sat on the stool resting for a long while. He placed that biggest persimmon on top of the basket, saying this one is for your grandma; she waits for this one bite every year.
The basket was full, a red little hill piled high. Grandfather carried the basket in one hand and held my hand with the other as we walked to the house. On the way he said he planted this tree the year he built the house, and he had picked persimmons his whole life, but this basket was the smoothest pick he had ever had. I knew it was not the tree being smooth; it was that this year he deliberately kept the hardest ones for himself to climb for. At night grandma steamed soft persimmon with glutinous rice cake, and the whole house was sweet with fragrance. Sitting by the stove I thought: the best harvest of autumn was not in the basket, but in that moment when grandfather smiled at me as he stepped down the ladder.
今年轮到我在梯子上
十一假期第二天，院子里的柿子熟透了。爷爷像往年一样去墙根取梯子，被我一把按住。我说爷爷你别上，去年你就说腰不碍事，今年该我上了。爷爷盯着我看了两秒，忽然笑了，把梯子立正，说行，你在上头听我的，我在下头给你扶着。
我扛梯子的时候才发现它比记忆里沉。把梯子靠稳树杈，我一级一级往上爬，爬到一半往下看，爷爷戴着他的旧草帽站在树荫里，两只手牢牢攥着梯子腿，仰着脸喊：踩第三根杠稳了再挪。我忽然想起小时候，他也是这样在树下扶着我，那时候我矮，够着最低枝上的柿子就得意，他把我从树上抱下来，拍我鞋上的土。十几年过去，树上的人和树下的人换了个位置。
我在树上摘，爷爷在下面接。他指挥我专挑皮亮个大的，拧的时候要一托一旋，别硬拽伤枝。软透的他不让放篮，喊我直接扔进他围裙兜里，留着我下来吃。树梢那几颗够不着，爷爷把一根长竹竿递上来，竿头绑着铁钩，我钩着枝子晃，他在下面躲落叶子。有一下劲儿大了，哗啦掉下来一小把青叶，爷爷在底下喊没事没事，人躲得稳稳的。
篮子满了，红柿子堆到篮沿，爷爷提上秤，五斤六两。他一样一样分：给东头太婆留半篮，给隔壁留一兜，自家留最软的几个。分完他抬头看我，说明年这时候你上初三，梯子就归我扶了，你未必有空回来。我说回，秋天一定回。爷爷没说话，把最红的一颗塞进我校服兜里。
回城的车上，兜里那颗柿子被体温焐得软了。我靠着车窗想，长大这件事原来有声音，就是梯子从爷爷肩上换到我肩上时，那一声沉。柿子年年红，梯子年年架，树下有人扶着，树上就敢往上爬——这个秋天我算是懂了。
This Year It Is My Turn on the Ladder
On the second day of the National Day holiday, the persimmons in the yard ripened through. Grandfather went to the wall to fetch the ladder as every year, and I held it down. I said, grandpa, do not go up. Last year you said your back was fine; this year it is my turn. Grandfather looked at me for two seconds, then suddenly laughed, set the ladder upright, and said all right: up there you listen to me, down here I hold it for you.
Only when I shouldered the ladder did I find it heavier than in memory. I leaned it steady against the tree fork and climbed rung by rung. Halfway up I looked down: grandfather stood in the tree shade in his old straw hat, both hands gripping the ladder legs tight, his face up, calling out: step on the third bar, steady yourself, then move. It suddenly came back to me that when I was small, he held the ladder for me down there just like this. Back then I was short, and I would strut whenever I reached a persimmon on the lowest branch; he would lift me down from the tree and pat the dust off my shoes. In a dozen years, the person on the tree and the person under it had traded places.
I picked up in the tree; grandfather received below. He directed me to take the big ones with shiny skin: when twisting, support and turn, do not yank and hurt the branch. The fully soft ones he would not let go into the basket, telling me to toss them straight into his apron pocket, to save for when I came down. For the last few at the treetop I could not reach, grandfather passed up a long bamboo pole with an iron hook on the end. I hooked the branch and shook, and he dodged the falling leaves below. Once I used too much force and a handful of green leaves came down in a rustle, and he called out from below that it was nothing, dodging solidly.
The basket filled, red persimmons heaped to the rim. Grandfather lifted it onto the scale: five jin six liang. He divided it item by item: half a basket for the old woman at the east end, a bag for the neighbors, the softest few kept for our own house. When he finished he looked up at me and said, this time next year you will be in ninth grade and the ladder will be mine to hold; you may not have time to come back. I said I will; I will come back in autumn for sure. Grandfather said nothing and pushed the reddest persimmon into the pocket of my school uniform.
On the bus back to the city, that persimmon in my pocket grew soft from my body heat. Leaning against the window I thought: growing up turns out to have a sound. It is the heavy note when the ladder passes from the shoulder of grandfather onto mine. Persimmons redden every year, the ladder is raised every year; as long as someone holds it from below, the person on top dares to climb. This autumn, I think I finally understand.
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