久违的雨,在窗外痛快地下着,红泥小炉,一缕岚烟。一支笔,一痕卷皱的叹息,折叠的心迹,将在滚烫的叙述中渐舒渐展。外祖母,天堂的路好走与否?外祖母去世差不多有四年了,可现在想起她来,眉眼清晰得依旧如同昨日才相见。外祖母生前很爱把手重重地压在我的头上,那般用力,仿佛倾覆了全身力量。然后再用力向后“抚摩”。我不知道她那样用力的动作能否称作抚摩。那般粗糙的手,全是老茧,像一块用久的干抹布,扎得 Long time off the rain, under the window with a happy, red clay stove, a ray of Lan smoke. A pen, a trace of the crumpled sigh, folded heart, will be gradually expanded in the hot narrative. Grandmother, paradise road to go or not? Grandmother passed away almost four years, but now she remembered her eyebrows still just as seen yesterday. My grandmother loved to put heavy pressure on my head, so hard, as if overthrown the whole body force. And then force backward “stroking ”. I do not know if she was so forceful as stroke. So rough hands, all calluses, like a piece of dry rags for a long time, tied