窗外的寒风呼呼地叫嚣着,老树枝丫上最后一片枯黄的叶子,也裹着冬日第一场白雪沉入泥潭。从外面进来,我的双手冻得已觉僵硬,脚也不受控制地在火炉上颤抖着,牙齿不停打架。“今天练毛笔字吧?”待暖和些了,父亲捧着我的手说。这不是征求我的意见,而是陈述。父亲向来如此,略带有一些小霸道。 Cold wind out the window whining clamor, the last piece of yellow branches old leaves, but also wrapped in the first winter snow into the quagmire. Come in from the outside, my hands were frozen stiff and my feet trembled uncontrollably on the stove, my teeth kept fighting. “Today’s brush calligraphy, right?” To be warmer, my father said holding my hand. This is not to ask for my opinion, but to state. My father has always been this way, with some minor tyrants.