黄昏时分,背负着一天工作的疲惫走进妈妈家简朴的小院儿,发现院子里竟燃起了火。父亲没有发现我,正专注地蹲在火堆旁,披着那件每逢劳动时便穿上的藏蓝色棉服。手里似乎是一根铁丝,他不断地用它在火堆里拨着一个黑漆漆的东西,脸色在火光的映衬下,是微红的,眼角的皱纹越发清晰,半辈子的沧桑都搁浅在里面。 Twilight hours, burdened with the day’s work tired into the simple home yard mother, found the yard actually lit a fire. My father did not find me, is dedicated to squatting beside the fire, wearing that piece of blue cotton dress worn during labor. It seems to be an iron wire in his hand. He continually dials a dark piece of paint in the fire. His face is reddish against the background of fire. The wrinkles in his eyes are clearer and the vicissitudes of life stranded. inside.