你好多年没抽烟。当你用放大镜一个字一个字开始看这封信的时候,我猜你会点上一支烟,静静抽。长到20岁了,你的小儿子给别人写过很多信,但从没给你写,也从没跟你好好说过话。有时咱爷俩喝醉了酒,我也只勉强吐出一句,爸你少喝点。我们之间疏于言表,如同一杯沉默的酒,喝下去轻飘飘火辣辣的,暗涌着许多沉重与婉转,堵在各自心里说不出来。那天你开车送我去车站,火车开往遥远的成都。我坐在车后面一句话不说,把头扭到一边看窗外,头一偏,透过后视镜我看见你额头上的皱纹。我发现这些年 You have not smoked for many years. When you start reading the letter with the magnifying glass word by word, I guess you will smoke a cigarette, quietly pumping. As long as 20 years old, your youngest son wrote a lot of letters to others, but never wrote to you and never talked to you well. Sometimes my father was drunk, I barely spit out one, dad you drink less. Between us neglect, as a cup of silent wine, drink light floating hot, with a lot of dark and mildly mild, blocking their hearts can not tell. That day you drove me to the station, the train bound for distant Chengdu. I sat in the back of the car did not say a word, twisted his head to the side of the window, head and one side, through the rearview mirror I saw the wrinkles on your forehead. I found these years