The Legacy on the Tip of a Pen

“Learning to write with a brush? No way!” I stormed out of the house, too angry to even listen to my mother’s helpless voice. At that moment, I had no way of knowing that fate would lead me to truly “meet” the brush in a completely different way.

I was muttering complaints as I ran, but I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. With a “thud,” I fell to the ground and lost consciousness.
When I woke up again, I found myself in a study filled with the scent of ink. I tried to get up, only to realize that I had turned into a brush! The shaft of the brush was made of wood and had been polished smooth by time; it was obvious that this brush had seen many stories. Lying on the brush holder, I couldn’t move, but I could see everything in the study clearly.
Suddenly, there was a “creak” as the door opened. An old man with white hair entered; his face was covered in wrinkles, and the joint of his middle finger on his right hand was a bit swollen—clearly a person who practiced calligraphy regularly. I thought he must be the owner of this brush.
He sat down, carefully picked me up with his thin hand, dipped me into the ink, and began to write powerful and vigorous characters on the white rice paper. Only then did I notice that the walls of the study were adorned with works of calligraphy—ancient poems, “The Analects of Confucius,” and even the “I Ching.” Each character was so strong and impressive that I couldn’t help but admire his perseverance.
After finishing a piece, he carefully cleaned the ink off me, placed me back on the brush holder, and then hung the work up. A smile appeared on his face, and the wrinkles in it looked like a blooming flower.
“Dad,” a sweet voice called out as a girl came in. “I’ve told you you’re too old for this; it’s useless anyway.” The old man frowned, pushed her away, and said, “Go away, go on! If you don’t want to practice, then just leave me alone.” After the girl left, he collapsed onto the chair, his face filled with worry. He muttered to himself, “Today’s children don’t want to learn this; yet this is a cultural treasure passed down by our Chinese nation for five thousand years. How can I let it be lost?”
Hearing these words, my heart was shaken. How I wished I could stand up and tell him, “I want to learn!” But right now, I was just a brush. I deeply regretted having refused my mother.
As if the heavens had heard my thoughts, with a “ding,” I suddenly opened my eyes to find myself back in bed, with my mother sitting by my side.
“Mom, I want to learn to write with a brush,” I said firmly.
“You finally agreed!” my mother hugged me, tears glinting in her eyes.
Calligraphy is a cultural treasure passed down by our Chinese nation for five thousand years. As primary school students of the new era, we should respect it, learn from it, and pass it on, so that this flower of culture will forever shine brightly in the river of history!