太阳早已在山间等待着下落,却似乎特意为爷爷和老单车驻留停足;路旁的野菊花在阳光下灼灼地期盼,不舍地摇曳在阴影与余晖间,期待着下一轮洒下的光阴。一天一天,一年一年,爷爷推单车的身影模糊成了一阵轻轻的风,吹过我成长的路途,慢慢消散在天空。爷爷的老单车其实早就不在了,但我还记得它摆在大厅的样子:那锈黄的机身被稀稀落落的黑漆遮掩着, The sun has long been waiting for the whereabouts of the mountains, but it seems deliberately parked for the grandfather and the old bicycle stop; roadside wild chrysanthemums in the sun burning hope, reluctantly sway between the shadows and the twilight, looking forward to the next round Spilled time. Day by day, year after year, my grandfather pushed the silhouette of a bicycle into a soft wind that blew the path I grew up and slowly dissipated in the sky. Grandpa’s old bike is actually gone, but I still remember it in the hall look: that yellow body is sparse black paint cover,