我次次坐在姥姥家的板凳上叠金元宝,家人都说我叠的最好。整整齐齐,两只手捏住稍微使劲,中间就鼓起来了,像真的金元宝那样。清明刚过,七年了。一年三次,我跪在他的坟头边儿上烧纸:自己叠的金元宝,买来的四色纸,数不清后面有几个零的大额纸币,还有带着电视机、手机和各种数码新产品的纸扎,恨不得把全世界烧给他。世人总是痴傻的,以为用这种无端的方式就能让故去的人在另一世界衣食无忧,不 I sit in the grandmother’s bench on the stack of gold ingots, the family said I stacked the best. Neat, holding both hands a little hard, in the middle of the drum up, as the real gold ingot. Ching Ming has just passed, seven years. Three times a year, I knelt beside his grave head, burning paper: his own stack of gold ingots, four-color paper bought, a few zeros at the back of the coin, TV with a cell phone and A variety of new digital paper products, can not wait to burn the world to him. The world is always foolish, thinking that in this unprovoked way, people who go will be able to live comfortably in another world without