总有一些东西不随身体迁移我生命里的一小段时光永远地深埋在那儿灯用完了的墨水瓶洗洗,配上灯头,用棉线做灯捻,就是我家的煤油灯。我做作业,母亲有时蹑手蹑脚地过来,把灯头调大点,灯光霍地亮直起来,照着屋顶的柱子、瓦片,一下子有暖起来的感觉。另一盏是全家人的公用灯,总是移来移去,哪里有需要提到哪里去;只是那灯捻也总是被母亲调上调下的。当重要的活干完,一家人坐下来闲谈,母亲即将灯光调小。母亲说:“说话不 There is always something that does not migrate with my body. A short period of my life is permanently buried there. The ink bottle, which runs out of lights, is washed, fitted with a lamp cap, twisted with cotton thread, and is my kerosene lamp. When I did my homework, my mother sometimes crept in, raised the head of the lamp a little bigger, and lit up the light, soaked up the pillars and tiles on the roof, and felt warm all of a sudden. The other is the family’s common lamp, always move away, where there is a need to mention where to go; but that lamp twist is always transferred by the mother tune down. When the important work done, the family sat down to chat, the mother is about to adjust the light small. Mother said: ”Talk not