我的记忆里,一直深藏着一盏煤油灯。那一盏散发着异味的、简陋的煤油灯,照亮了山村的黑夜,也照亮了我的梦。二十多年前,村子里还没有通电,煤油灯成了唯一的照明工具。每当夜幕降临,母亲便会小心翼翼地点燃油灯,将灯芯捻长,好让如豆的光更亮一些。借着煤油灯的光亮,我在书山里邀游,在题海里徜徉。父亲静静地坐在我的旁边,有时教我认字,有时为我削铅笔。母亲也极少言语,认真地纳着鞋底。 There was a kerosene lamp deep in my memory. The shabby kerosene lamp, with its peculiar smell, illuminated the dark night of the mountain village and illuminated my dream. Twenty years ago, there was no electricity in the village, and kerosene lamps became the only lighting tool. Whenever night falls, the mother lights the lamp carefully and twists the wick to make the light like beans brighter. With the light of the kerosene lamp, I was invited to travel in the book mountain, in the sea of ​​questioning. My father sat quietly beside me, sometimes teaching me to type, sometimes sharpening pencils for me. Mother also rarely words, take the sole seriously.