家书,似乎在岁月流逝中,逐渐成为一种遥远的记忆,一首古老的歌曲。我对家书并不熟悉,似乎只在书本上、电影里见到过。印象中,那上面写满了牵挂与乡愁的寄托,月光照亮了一纸翩鸿,写的人、读的人,都是泪眼。曾几何时,“烽火连三月,家书抵万金”,在漫长的年代里,家书对人们来说,是期待,是承诺,弥足珍贵,纸短情长。 The book seems to have gradually become a distant memory, an old song, in the passage of time. I am not familiar with the family books and I have only seen them in books and movies. In the impression, it was filled with the sustenance of care and homesickness. The moonlight illuminated a piece of paper, and the people who wrote it and those who read it were all tearful. Once upon a time, “The bonfire was even in March, and the family book arrived at ten thousand gold.” For a long time, the letters of the family are an expectation for the people. They are promises, precious, and short-lived.