小时候,你的影像模糊而遥远,在我的记忆中,只能勾勒出你大概的轮廓。稍大一点,我仰望着你,你是那样的高大,以至于我很难碰触到你。而你总是很忙碌,如疾风,如暴雨。匆匆来,匆匆去。我从童年的摇篮中爬出,迈进少年的门槛。我开始凝视你,凝视你的眼睛,凝视你额头上岁月的脚步留下的痕迹。可由于年少无知,我却觉得你不再高大,甚至在你顶风冒雨为我送来暖暖鸡汤时,因为同学议论你的衰老而感到羞愧不已。 As a child, your images are blurred and far away, and in my memory, you can only outline your approximate outline. Slightly larger, I look up to you, you are so tall, that I hardly touch you. And you are always busy, like a blast, like a torrential rain. Hurriedly, hurry to go. I climbed out of the cradle of childhood into the threshold of juvenile. I began to gaze at you, gazing at your eyes, gazing at the marks left by the steps of your forehead. But because of young ignorance, I think you are no longer tall, even when you send me a warm chicken soup, because my classmates talk about your aging and feel ashamed endless.