咚……咚……小巷口传来了悠扬的竹筒敲击声。我知道,卖馄饨的来了。总是这样澄净的夜,听见了这般空灵的声响,如激起的涟漪在水面荡漾。寒冷的冬日里,沸腾的锅里翻腾起白雾,白雾的后方,一个臃肿的身影,弓着背,埋头缓缓地踩动车子,不时地用木条敲击竹筒。记忆里那个在冬天卖馄饨的老人,穿着花色棉袄,干瘦的身躯动作麻利地捞起馄饨。他背对着我们,身影看起来那么孤单。我牵着父亲的手,看见他转头时花白的头发和混浊的眼。 Boom ... boom ... Alley came a melodious bamboo percussion. I know, to sell wonton. It was always such a clean night, I heard such a ethereal sound, such as rippling ripples in the water rippling. Cold winter days, the boiling pot tossed the white fog, the rear of the white fog, a bloated figure, bow back, slowly stepped on the car, from time to time hit the bamboo with wood. The memory of the elderly selling wonton in the winter, wearing a color jacket, slimming body deftly picked up wonton. He is back to us, the figure looks so lonely. I took my father’s hand and saw the gray hair and the cloudy eyes when he turned around.