erwte

Father

I know my father, and I often think so.   I know his loneliness in every night, I know his waiting in the cold wind, and I know his silent affection. I understand, but I choose silence, like father’s love for me, deep as the sea, subtle as dust.   For a long time, I didn’t have much conversation with my father, no intimate coquetry, or even a deliberate eye contact..   When I was a child, my father gave me a stern impression. Seeing my father was often like a mouse seeing a cat, and my heart was filled with awe. My sister and I were always habitually hiding from my father.. On holidays, during the day, we get excited because our father is not at home. However, with the coming of night, our young hearts will feel afraid, turn on all the lights in the house, put the voice of the TV to the maximum, and even my sister and I will hide our fears with songs.. At that moment, we seemed to know that the security our father gave us was the lamp in the dark. Father hardly hit us, but we were afraid of him from the heart. Probably few people will know how a man lives with two children without a job.. Other people’s idle talk and embarrassment in life did not let him choose to escape, and did not let him leave my younger sister and I behind. Poverty, once accompanied by the tottering family, was carried silently by his father for decades. In those years, my father went from house to house collecting garbage, doing short work for others, burning boilers in cement plants … Ah, time is like an hourglass, quietly spreading out in the palm of his hand.. Open that page of pale memory, I grew up like a weed when I was a child. Maybe life didn’t teach me too much, but it taught me the tenacity, forbearance and instinctive stubbornness. It’s not a happy-go-lucky situation, but a ray of sunshine is always hidden in my heart. Ten years ago, it was once a threshold, and I was so careless in the past. No one will understand that the blood and tears streaming in the wind and rain, even father, accompany us to grow up, but he will not understand that our young desire and pursuit for warmth. No tears, not no tears, but tears can only flow freely in the night. Suffering will not hide its ferocious face because it is weak. The tears of childhood, remember really not much, like the suffering of life, never honed the innocent heart. But my father’s tears still burn my soul. That year, when my mother left, I saw my father shed tears for the first time. When my younger sister and I tugged at my father’s arm from left to right, his tears flowed down like this without covering up, causing pain, frantically pestering my heart, opening their jaws and eating this helpless family. The second time I saw my father’s tears was in the morning before dawn. When I was still in a hazy dream, I heard my father call me. After getting up, I was scared to cry. At that time, my father would get up and chop pig grass before dawn every day. Because the light was not very bright, my father’s hand was accidentally hurt. I didn’t see how deep the wound was. I still remember two bowls of blood. Father cried and scolded his mother. I know that the pain in his hand can’t compare with the pain in his heart..   As I grew older, my communication with my father was even less. All the year round, there are only a handful of time at home, and they are always used to coming and going in a hurry. But every time, the word ” home” is always like a piece of lead, which is deeply rooted in my heart. Home, even if it’s just a light touch, or a brief look back, will cause pain in the heart.. I am timid. I am afraid to go home and face the father who raised me but is still lonely today.. Father, still continues his life in the wind and rain every day, and I, too, have taken root and sprouted in a place not far from my hometown.. From then on, my father stayed alone in his hometown and in the land where his life was inscribed..   The old house in my hometown is as old as an old man. When it rains, thin raindrops always fall between the cracks of the tiles. Over the years, most of the tile houses in my hometown have turned into tall bungalows. Only my old house has been standing silently in the long river of time, accompanying my father.. My father is old and the house is old. I dare not even write down my father’s age. Yes, I dare not, so I can cheat myself all the time. My father is not old. It seems that only in this way will I not feel uneasy about the lack of care for his father.. Most of the time, I always feel that I am a thin and cool person, and the love I give to my father is really too little and too little.. I remember that year when my sister and I went to visit my mother, my father ignored us and finally drove us out of the house. At that time, my heart was really resentful of my father.. After all, the feud of the previous generation, I don’t want to ignore who is right and who is wrong, and I don’t want to blame anyone. Later, when I got married, my father didn’t attend the wedding, which became a knot in my heart for many years. It was not until many years later that I began to slowly walk into my father’s heart that I discovered that my stubbornness was similar to his stubbornness.. Clearly love is deep, clearly care about is tight, but did not say exports. When I looked at the events of the year again, I realized how heartache it was for him to leave all his father’s love aside for love when he was young..Fourth uncle said, your father is worried about you! You are sincere, afraid of losing money in other people’s homes.   When I came home a few years ago, my father would occasionally say, ” If you want to build a house here, I’ll give you the money and you’ll do your own work.”. Later, the father did not read it, so he finally understood that the children grew up and had their own home.. Some people say that my daughter is a close little cotton-padded jacket of my parents, but I have done nothing for him. In the stormy days, I will tie in, but only tie in. Sometimes, I always feel there are thousands of words, but I don’t know where to start.   Father is always used to gazing silently and sad after we leave, just as I always look at father carefully after he turns around.. Years never grow old, but father is old. My hand gently touched the mud falling from the old house. I remember how I picked up the little drops of my father’s love like this mottled wall in the years.. The moss-covered corner of the wall and the smoke condensed from the spider web once burned my eyes. It was not until the years grew old that I realized that the massiness remaining in the years was warm and touched by my father.   Today, every time I go home, my father always buys what his son likes to eat, packs it up, then takes the pole, starts it up and sends us to the car.. There is a section of road in my hometown that has not been opened to traffic, only the curved field path is undulating under my feet..   The father walked ahead with the things he had prepared for his son. Eyes, his back, bent, once with black hair already temples to fly frost. In the sour nose and misty eyes, I saw two ends of the curved pole, one carrying heavy years and the other carrying father’s silent love..