那年五月,我回到阔别多年的故乡,叩响了家门。隔门听到老人鞋子在地上拖沓的沉缓的声音,半晌才是苍老的问话,“谁呀?”“我。”终于还是迟疑着。母亲,母亲,您辨不出您儿子的声音啦?您猜不出是您放飞二十三载的鸟儿归巢吗?门,吱吱地欠开一条窄缝儿。哦,母亲!母亲的眼睛!那双眼睛,迟滞地抬起来。老人的两眼因为灶火熏,做活计熬,又经常哭泣,还倒睫,干涩涩的。下眼睑垂着很大的泪囊。那眼睛打 In May of that year, I returned to my hometown after many years and knocked on my door. The door to hear the old man shoes on the ground procrastination, the quiet voice, long while is the old question, “Who?” “” “I” finally hesitated. Mother, mother, you can not tell your son’s voice? You can not guess that your twenty-three-year-old bird homing? The door creaks under a narrow slit. Oh, mother! Mother’s eyes! Those eyes, hysterically, lifted. Old man’s eyes because the stove fire smoked, live work boil, and often cry, but also trichiasis, dry astringent. Under the eyelids drooping a lot of dacryocyst. That eye fight