The thin winter wind rushed from the corner of the street, carrying a little chill, and also blew the sound of the old popcorn pot cover on the street particularly clearly. Ju Fufu’s hand strength was still steady. She held the pot cover with one hand, tapping it gently while staring at the crackling corn kernels in the pot. The popcorn exploded for a while and then remained silent. The tapping and popping sounds of the pot cover intertwined into a melody of life, which was simple but warm.

This street corner was very cold, and pedestrians were in a hurry. No one would stop for the sound of popcorn, but Ju Fufu didn’t seem to care. She had long been accustomed to the blowing of the winter wind and the eyes ignored by this city. The sound of the pot cover in her hand was the rhythm of her life and the weak but stubborn communication between her and the world.

Her face was red from the cold, and her fingers were white, but she didn’t stop. Her popcorn pot and lid are her “livelihood tools”, more like her companion, accompanying her through the ups and downs of the year. At this age, in this weather, who can guard this broken pot and lid like her, knock out pot after pot of popcorn, waiting for someone to buy the warmth and sweetness?

There are too many people like Ju Fufu on the streets of this city. They don’t have gorgeous clothes, nor do they have earth-shaking stories, but only a persistence and bitter persistence in life. She didn’t knock the lid to please anyone, nor to get applause, she just wanted to keep herself alive, that’s enough.

The sound of the lid colliding, like a symbol of tenacity, knocked into the heart of this city in winter. The popcorn exploded in the pot, and at that moment, it seemed as if there was an explosive force of life, breaking through the ice and snow from the seeds that had suffered hardships and rushing out. The sound of Ju Fufu’s pot is not only a way of livelihood, but also an unyielding resistance to fate.

There is too much indifference and ruthlessness in this city. In the hurried footsteps, people are anxious and tired about life. There is no time and no mood to stop and look at the tiny sounds. But Ju Fufu knows that every knocking sound is her life poem. She knocks on the pot lid and the door of time, wanting to knock on a warm window for herself and this indifferent world.

The winter wind blows, her hair is messy, but there is a glimmer of bright light in her eyes. She never expects to be rich and powerful, but just wants to feed herself and her family in her own way. The sound of the pot lid is the rhythm of her life and the proof of her existence. Perhaps this sound is so light that it is almost ignored, but it is this tiny and persistent sound that constitutes the most real fireworks in the world.

The lights on the street illuminate her figure, and her clothes are ragged, but it does not damage her strong will. The sound of her pot lid is like a flame in winter, illuminating the darkness in the corner of this city. Those forgotten people and those neglected stories can be vaguely heard in the sound of the pot lid.

The aroma of popcorn, mixed with the winter chill, is like a bitter sweetness, reminding every pedestrian that life is bitter, but it still has warmth. Ju Fufu’s life is like this. A pot of popcorn supports a family and also supports her dignity of not being forgotten.

In the sound of her pot lid, there is tenacity, pain, and warmth. That voice seems to tell us: Even if life is full of thorns, we must use the most ordinary means to live out our own splendor. Every subtle knocking strikes the softness in our hearts and awakens the forgotten kindness and perseverance.

When the popcorn pot lid sounded on the winter street, the inconspicuous woman and her simple tools jointly composed a silent hymn about life and destiny. She used a pair of weathered hands to tell us: There is poetry in the ordinary, there is still light in the suffering, and the fireworks of life are so simple and real.