我爱好写作,但从来都没有写过我的母亲。也许是随着时光一天天推移的缘故吧,从今年秋天到冬天,生活中看到的一些细节——这些细节在我的脑海里反复闪现——常让我不由得想到母亲,想到留存在我记忆里的一些与她有关的事。我本不想把这些事翻腾出来仔细去想,想它们诠释了我怎样的一位母亲,但每当下班后,我一个人走在夜路上,或者我沉静地躺在 I love writing, but never wrote my mother. Perhaps as time goes by, the details of life, from autumn to winter this fall - these details flashed through my mind - often make me think of my mother, I think of my memory Something related to her. I did not want to turn these things up carefully and think about how they interpreted a mother who I was, but whenever I got off work, I walked alone in the night, or I lay quietly