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掌灯时分天空中下起了小雨。这应该是冬末的最后一场雨了。因为再过十天就是春节了。一阵阵冷风裹着雨水从空旷的河边向河堤脚下刮去。细雨轻声,如同有人在那里窃窃私语。河堤边有座乡村小庙,阴雨蒙蒙中的河湾畔,只有一座孤零零的小屋。在这间小屋里,两个相依为命的老阿婆已经度过了几十个冬夏,如今的她们已是白发苍苍。此刻,她们俩正坐在那间窄小但暖融融的灶房里,灶膛中燃烧着稻草和干芭蕉叶,混杂着厨房的味道。原本用土坯砌成的灶台因年久而变得坚硬如石板,灶上放着一个紫砂烧成的小闷锅,上面明显地带有一个大大的裂纹。锅里炖着一小碗椰
When the lights began to rain in the sky. This should be the last rain of late winter. Because another ten days is the Spring Festival. A burst of cold wind wrapped in rain from the open river to the embankment scrape off. Light rain, as someone whispering there. There is a rural small temple on the bank of the embankment, and a solitary lodge on the bank of the river in the rainy and gloomy rivers. In this hut, the two old ladies, each dependent on one another, have spent dozens of summer and winter, now they are gray-haired. At the moment, the two of them are sitting in the narrow, but warm, fusion kitchen with burning straw and dried banana leaves, mixed with the kitchen. The hob originally made of adobe became rigid as a stone slab over a long period of time. A small pan of purple clay was placed on the stove, apparently with a big crack. A small bowl of coconut stewed in the pan