秋天来了。很久以来,我都不曾深刻嗅到秋的味道,直到现在我才感知。秋天从高远的树梢飘来,从淡远的苍穹赶来,在神秘的叹息里抵达,在缓缓的溪流里逶迤,秋天更从父亲的精神高原上破土而出。到了这个秋天,父亲还顽固地吸着烟卷,吐出淡蓝色的烟雾,像一个个神秘的问号。我不止一次威逼过他戒烟。他成长的春,他努力的夏,早已淹没 Autumn has come. For a long time, I did not deeply smell the autumn taste, until now I just felt. Autumn floats from the lofty treetops, arrives in the faraway sky, arrives in a mysterious sigh, slugs in the gentle stream, and falls from the father’s spiritual plateau in autumn. By this fall, my father still stubbornly smoking cigarettes, spit out the light blue smoke, like a mysterious question mark. I’ve tried to quit smoking more than once. His spring of growth, his hard summer, has long submerged