下班回家,我的摩托车还没有停稳,隔着窗玻璃,一个打斗场面映入我的视野。我走进儿子小军的房间,就见地上有摔破的花盆,妻子手里的笤帚疙瘩断了把,嘴里不停地骂,不住地唠叨,大有不获全胜决不罢休的架势。儿子高举着手里的火铲,气喘吁吁地往前冲。我把他拉到窗台边,他眼里含泪,目 Home from get off work, my motorcycle has not stopped, across the window glass, a scene of fighting reflected my vision. I walked into the room of the son of a small army to see the broken pot on the ground, his wife’s hand broom-lumps broken, cursing his mouth kept, could not live to nagging, will never win Give up the posture. Son holding the fire shovel in his hand, panting forward. I pulled him to the edge of the bay window, tears in his eyes, eyes