我的父亲是一个不善言谈的人,小时候,我与他并无太多亲昵的动作。很多时候,我很羡慕村子里和我同龄的小伙伴,他们常常被自己的父亲高高地扛在肩头,偶尔胳肢两下,洒下一串银铃般的笑声。而我只能默默地踢着路边的小石子,孤单地走在回家的路上。我知道此时的父亲,要么在地里干活,要么在漏雨的瓦房上忙碌着。在父亲怀里撒娇只能是在我的梦里。 My father was a poor talker. As a kid, I did not have much intimacy with him. Very often, I admire the village and my little friends of my age, who are often carried high on their shoulders by their fathers, tickling occasionally twice and pouring a silver bell-like laughter. And I can only silently kick the pebbles on the roadside, walking alone on the way home. I know my father at this time either works in the field or is busy with the leaky tile roof. Flirting in his father’s arms can only be in my dreams.