我常常会想起莫家笔店,想起寂寞的老宅子门前寂寞的莫家婆婆。我就读的那所大学附近有个自发的瓜菜集贸市场,早晚交易高峰期,小摊便直往马路压缩,每每人声鼎沸、鸡飞狗跳。挤过集市,紧接着是一段下坡路。路不宽,古树蔽空,空气中染透了鲜活的绿,人走到其中两袖清风,顿时隔开了十丈红尘。这时你一抬头,便看到莫家笔店了。笔店不大,很破旧衰老了,门不宽却高,门槛也颇高,像要把那些没点翰墨水平的人拒之门外似的。店里采光不好,又很少点灯照明,发暗的墙上挂满了裱了多年的字画,高高的柜台上,笔架上是笔,笔筒里是笔,笔盒中也是笔。大的手臂粗细,长达几米,小的筷子粗细,只有几十根毫。站着躺着的笔丛中,就坐着莫家婆婆。莫家婆婆似乎是寡居的,因为店里几乎从不曾见别人。她很沉默,记忆中她从不主动与人搭话,有点不屑似的。有人来了,她顶多飞快地瞥上一眼,那目中无人的样子,常常让人想起心中无鱼的姜太公。柜台上有水、有纸, I often think of Mo Pen shop, remember the lonely old house in front of lonely Mo-house mother. Near the university where I was studying, there was a spontaneous market for vegetables and vegetables. In the morning and evening peak hours, the stalls went straight to the road to compaction. Crowded over the market, followed by a downhill. Road is not wide, old trees empty, the air through the fresh green, people came to one of the two sleeves breeze, suddenly separated by ten feet of red dust. At this time you look up, they see Mo Pen shop. Small pen shop, it is old and decaying, the door is not wide but high, the threshold is also high, like those who did not resist the level of rejection of people outside the door. The store lighting is poor, and very little lighting, dark wall mounted framed for many years of calligraphy and painting, high on the counter, the pen holder is a pen, pen holder is a pen, pencil case is pen. Large arm thickness, up to a few meters, the thickness of small chopsticks, only a few dozen root cents. Standing pen lying in the plexus, sitting Mo-home her mother. Mo’s mother seems to be widowed, because the store almost never see others. She is very silent, she never take the initiative to speak with people in memory, a bit disdainful. When someone came, she glimpsed at the top most quickly, and the unattended appearance in her eyes was often reminiscent of Jiang Taigong, who had no fish in her heart. There is water on the counter, there is paper,