在城里,我有一个土碗,是进城那年,娘送给我的。娘送我的那个土碗,偶尔望上一眼,想起娘的话,顿觉欣慰,因为我天天吃上饱饭,人到中年体形还发了福。三十岁那年,娘才对我说,送你的那个土碗,是怕你在城里活不下去了,就回来,靠那一亩三分地,也饿不死人。娘还说,人一瞎想,往往命就不长。我在城里,从不挑食。堂们告诉我,肚子饿得快掉气那年,扒了树皮在铁锅里煮来吃,吃了不消化,拉不出来,就撑着肚子爬剑树上去吼叫。 In the city, I have a soil bowl, is the city that year, mother gave me. Mother sent me that earth bowl, and occasionally glanced, think of her words, feel relieved, because I eat every day, people also made a blessing to the middle-aged figure. At the age of thirty, the lady said to me that the soil that gave you was afraid that you would not be able to survive in the city. Mother also said that people are blind, often life is not long. I am in the city, never picky eaters. The hall told me that the hungry was out of gas that year, the bark of the bake cooked in the wok to eat, eat indigestible, can not pull out, to keep the bell climbing on the stomach tree roar.