走进雾中,你再也没有回头,只给我留下了一个背影。北方人过腊月二十四,称为小年。小年的第二天,我和女儿送你赶火车。早晨雾大,抓一把攥出水。走在雾中,像沉入水底。雾中的人有沉浮感,渐渐会感到窒息。来到车站。站台上人如潮水,声音沸腾。他们扶老携幼,提锣背鼓,多是年货。赶车人一脸的焦虑,满眼的渴望,归心似箭。明知在浓雾中望不了多远,他们仍是不停地向车来的方向张望。唯恐挤不上车,坐不上座位。“车来了。”有 Into the fog, you never look back, only to give me a back. Northerners over the twelfth lunar month, known as the small year. The second day of the small year, my daughter and I send you to catch the train. Big fog in the morning, grabbed a clutched water. Walk in the fog, like sinking into the water. People in the fog have a sense of ups and downs, and gradually feel suffocated. Came to the station. Platform tide, sound boiling. They help young and old, raise gongs and drums, mostly new products. Anxiety of car drivers face, eyes full of desire, at heart like arrows. Knowing how far in the thick fog they can not stop looking in the direction of the car. Lest you squeeze on the bus, can not get on the seat. “Car is coming. ” There is