我读小学的时候,冬日清晨,每天走过风雪交加的街道。街道边的平房屋檐下,经常见到瑟缩着卖柿子的小贩。小贩是一个中年农民,他面前是一担火晶柿子。他双手缩在袖筒里,单薄的棉袄棉裤,黑灰色,破旧得翻出煤灰样的棉絮。在我的印象里,冬天卖柿子小贩穿的棉裤裤脚总是短几寸,没有穿袜子,脚踝裸露,干瘦如枯柴,干裂开来,流出来的血变成黑色血迹凝固在上面。小贩缩着脖子,嘴里喷着白色雾气,跺着脚,搓着手,抵御凝结成黑冰的煤灰地面生出的阵阵寒气。 When I was in elementary school, I walked through the snow-covered streets every winter morning early in the morning. Under the eaves of bungalows on the side of the street, vendors who shrank persimmons often met. Hawker is a middle-aged peasant, in front of him is a bear crystal persimmon. His hands shrank in the sleeves, thin jacket cotton trousers, dark gray, shabby get out of coal-like cotton. In my mind, winter sales of persimmon hawker pants are always a few inches short, without socks, ankle bare, thin as dry wood, dry open, the blood flowing out into black blood coagulation on it. Narrow neck hawkers, his mouth sprayed with white mist, stomping his feet, rubbing his hands against condensation into black ice soot surface of the ground chills.