In people's life, we have seen many hands, which may be the hand that your father hit you after you made a mistake, the hand that your mother touched your forehead when you were sick, or the hand that your friend helped you stand up after you fell. But what I can't forget is grandma's hand.
When I was born, my mother always told me, "Grandma was the first to hug you when you landed." Looking at the photo at that time, I was in infancy in the photo, and there were a pair of hands holding me in the photo. That's grandma's hand. Grandma used to work in a cotton mill, so her hands are not white, but rosy and shiny.
When I was a child, I stayed at my grandmother's house because my parents went to work. At that time, I was very naughty My grandmother always picks me up at dinner. Her hands smell good because she has just finished cooking. Then she sat me in a chair. Then she picked up a spoon and gave me a bite, but my grandmother insisted on putting it in her mouth to prevent me from burning. On summer nights, when my grandmother put me to sleep, she always waved a cattail leaf fan to fan me. I watched grandma's hand waving it in my sleepy eyes, just like the wings of an angel. After that, I slowly fell asleep. When ................................................................................................................. first entered primary school, my grandmother was found to be ill. The whole family was in a hurry at that time. Soon after, she was taken to the hospital. At the moment she walked into the operating room, she smiled and waved to us. The operation went smoothly, and my grandmother and I lived happily for several years. Until 2008, my grandfather called and told me that my grandmother's illness had recurred. I had just left school at that time, and I heard that grandma's illness would recur sooner or later. I nodded. Every time I see my grandmother, the situation gets worse and worse. Her ruddy and shining hands are as white as dead branches. When I came to the ward and looked at my grandmother lying in the hospital bed, I was anxious. The hand that used to feed me and the hand with a fan were treated with pinholes. Because of the fifth grade final exam, that was the last time I saw my grandmother. After the exam, my grandfather took me to the hospital in a hurry, but my grandmother died. ................................................................................................................................. used to say, "You don't know what is gone until you are gone." What I want to say is that although my grandmother has left me, my hands are still as warm as ever.
Composition 2: The Hand in Memory 1000 Words The Hand in Memory
These are thick and wrinkled hands, but they cultivate my interest in calligraphy. This is grandpa's hand.
In my memory, I seldom pay attention to grandpa's hand, but I really look at grandpa's hand carefully, but only when grandpa writes calligraphy. When I was a child, whenever I saw Grandpa quietly writing Chinese characters in the study, I would sneak into the study and lie on the corner of the table to watch Grandpa concentrate on writing those beautiful Chinese characters. The thick ink fragrance made me like calligraphy gradually, so an idea sprouted in my heart, so I ran to my grandfather and said, "Grandpa, I also want to learn to write Chinese calligraphy!" " "Grandpa looked at it, patted me on the head with his thick hand and said," Okay, okay! Grandpa is just teaching you! "
Every day after that, I learned to write Chinese calligraphy with my grandfather. Grandpa often wraps my small and smooth hands with his thick and wrinkled handbag, while my small hands are wrapped with slender hairpens. Day after day, day after day, I finally learned the basic strokes of calligraphy in grandpa's thick hands. When I was a child, I thought that learning basic strokes meant learning to write brush strokes. Finally, one day in primary school, I was still practicing calligraphy in the study according to my grandfather's instructions, but suddenly there was a friendly voice outside the window. It turned out that my friends were asking me to go out to play. Suddenly, my heart seemed to fly out, and I couldn't sit still. I stood up and said to my grandfather, "Grandpa, I'm going out to play for a while." "no! Go out after practice! " Grandpa said to me sternly. This is a pair of big hands stretched out behind me, pulling me back from the stairs and my longing heart back. Grandpa went on to say, "Give me your hand! Let grandpa call and see if you want to go out next time. " "pa!" I left a red mark on my hand. Grandpa hit me, even hit me. At first, I didn't understand grandpa's behavior, but now I understand that grandpa hit me with his hand to make me understand: concentrate on things!
However, grandpa's thick and wrinkled hands have the power to warm people's hearts. I remember that winter, when the wind was cold, an old man took his grandson to the Children's Palace for a calligraphy class. The old man used his seemingly strong body to block a lot of cold wind for his little grandson behind him. That old man is grandpa. I vaguely remember that grandpa forgot to bring gloves to write to me in a hurry that day. The cold wind left several deep wrinkles on grandpa's hand ... When I arrived at the Children's Palace, grandpa filled it up for me from the back of the car, touched my little hand and said, "Is it cold, son?" I shook my head, sneezed, looked up and said, "Grandpa, I'm not cold." But grandpa covered my cold little hand with old hands and said, "My hands are so cold, but they are not, son. Look at these red hands. " At this time, grandpa's big hand was so warm, which warmed my heart and the cold winter. However, when my grandfather sent me to study, I fell behind the root of the disease and my hands became old and rough. If grandpa's hands used to be rough and wrinkled, then grandpa's hands are not warm now!
Hands in memory, people I can't forget. It's him, it's grandpa's hand that makes me full of love for calligraphy and work hard. When I grow up, I must hold my grandfather's hand and say, "Grandpa, your hand is unforgettable and old!" "
Composition 3: "The Hand in Memory" The hand in memory in 500 words.
Looking at the children, looking at my clasped hands and smiling face, I can't help recalling my deepest memories. ...
These hands were held for the first time since I was born. These hands patiently taught me to eat, walk and write ... the warmth in my hands is my safe haven. It's like a bright lamp. If you follow it closely, you will not get lost. It's like a clear spring in the desert. If you hold on to it, it won't run away. It's like a heater in winter. If you hold on to it, it won't slip away.
Once, those hands were left with vicissitudes by cruel years; Once, I stopped holding those warm hands and even began to hate them. Seventeen or eighteen, I can't remember how I threw those hands off the door and left them alone in the air. Gradually, the indifference of the outside society reminds me of the warmth of my hands, but my stubborn face is rock solid.
Those hands accompanied me through a short journey, but they are unforgettable. I have left a deep mark on my heart, but I refuse to touch it. How many times I tried to get back to those hands when I was tired, but I was so persistent. After entering the society, I really understood the difficulty of those hands; After having a family, I really understand why those hands are so tolerant.
Now back to the place where we used to laugh together, tears are falling quietly. The tree wants to be quiet and the wind will not stop, but the son wants to keep it. In a trance, I suddenly felt that my hands were holding me, and the residual temperature was as gentle and warm as when I was a child. ...
Grade 5: Cai Jia.
Composition 4: "Hands in Memory" 600 words Inadvertently, I touched my mother's hand, only to find that her hand had lost its previous luster, repeatedly rubbing the cracks on the clothes in the laundry room, like cracked farmland, criss-crossing, one wrapped around another, countless.
In the first memory, my mother's hand is like the sun in winter, with the light and warmth of an angel. She always has a handful of my favorite candy or a fascinating fairy tale book in her hand. Under the care of my mother's warm hand, I knocked on the door of reading.
Later, my mother's hand was very strict, like a sharp awl, and she always stabbed me hard when I couldn't tell right from wrong, reminding me. It was in the first grade, and I saw that all my classmates had a two-color pen, and I was envious, just like having one. But I have no money, and my mother has never bought anything extra. I got up my nerve and secretly took out a dollar from my mother's bag. Later, somehow, my mother found me. My mother's hands turned into slippers and hit me hard. My * * * became red and swollen and became a "monkey * * *". The terrible pain of sitting and not daring to sit is deeply imprinted on my mind.
Later, I didn't notice what my mother's hands were like. I only remember that my mother's hands were soaked in cold water every day, a plastic washboard and a bar of soap, and my clothes rubbed up and down between my mother's skilled fingers day after day. Year after year, my mother's hands became dry and haggard from smooth and delicate, and her weather-beaten skin was covered with wrinkles. When I touched my mother's hands, a bitter feeling suddenly came to my mind.
Thanks to my mother's hands, I can always carry a bright lamp to illuminate the way forward in the storm, and let me feel the warmth of maternal love. Those hands, silently and painstakingly raising me and guiding me, have become my unforgettable memory.
Composition 5: "The Hand in Memory" The hand in memory in 600 words.
Class 8 (3) Chen Shanshan
Open the box of memory, the past is like pearls, as many as stars, countless. What I can't forget is the hands in my memory.
In my mind, my father's hands were black and rough. I didn't like these hands very much since I was a child. Not only do they look bad, but they also feel uncomfortable. But such hands are full of fatherly love, which warms my childhood and accompanies my growth.
Recalling my childhood is those hands that have been silently waiting for me. When I accidentally fell asleep, it was those hands that quietly carried me back to my room; When I sleep and kick the quilt, it is those hands that gently cover the quilt for me; It was those hands that held me carefully when I learned to skate. Gradually, I grow up, but my hand is still there. When I burn the midnight oil, quietly make me a cup of hot tea. Encourage me to stand up when I fall; Please give me warm applause when I succeed.
Those hands in memory, deep wrinkles draw strange symbols on you. Those hands are father's hands, weather-beaten hands, engraved with father's love.
Whenever the severe winter comes, many "sub-ditches" will grow next to my father's large and small "gullies", and dry hands are like dry branches in front of the window. Knife cutting, sawdust "attack" ... so painful.
Pain can only be a piece of cake for my father. Over the years. Father's hands are full of calluses and scars of unknown origin. It symbolizes his father's hard work and everything he has done for this family.
Dear father, I will never forget everything you have done for me, your hands and your love. Every time you shake hands, every time you convey warmth and positive energy to me, I will always remember it in my heart.
Dad, please let me hold your hand, hold your rough hand, hold your loving hand, watch the colorful spring together and taste the fallen leaves in autumn ~
Composition 6: "The Hand in Memory" The hand in memory in 500 words.
The rough hands in my memory are because when we first met, you told me that you had a unique skin disease, and the dexterity of those hands is because you can always finish the homework assigned by the teacher easily, and you can even say that your hands are full of wisdom.
And the owner of these hands, you, accompanied me for three years. In the past three years, everything has changed. What hasn't changed is you and your hands. This seems to have become an eternal law, and you can't understand it. If you ask, you can always write the correct solution to the problem. Do you still remember the "little game" between classes? Your hands look thin, but they contain great power. This is a great and intelligent force, which encourages me to keep up with you.
You are a favored child, cared by your parents and cared by your teacher, but all these can never hide your inner pain. Your hands are still so rough. Many times, you have told me that I want to be a doctor in the future and then cure my skin disease. I was noncommittal, just smiled and said, do you want to study anatomy when you go to medical school in the future? You said you would cure the disease at all costs, and then I knew that if you didn't cure the disease, it would always be a regret in your heart.
When you came back from your trip to Australia that year, your skin disease was particularly serious, and a thin layer of lotus even appeared in some places. I asked, but you told me there was nothing but swimming in the sea. Because of this disease, you can't touch anything related to seawater. I don't even eat sea fish at ordinary times, but I went swimming this time. You've been looking out of the window, maybe thinking of someone else. But you don't know, I look at your bloody hands at the moment and have vowed that I will help you cure this strange disease in my lifetime.
We have been brothers for three years, and your hand and mine often compete together, but I didn't know that your hand had knocked on my door.
Composition 7: "The Hand in Memory" The hand in memory in 900 words.
Open the treasure house of memory, and it is those hands that appear the most frequently. When I first walked into kindergarten, I was very flustered; On the first day of primary school, I carefully arranged my school uniform with my hands; In the light, open the exercise book and help me check my homework? Those hands, every moment has its different state. However, it is a precious love from beginning to end, not only for me, but also for others.
Mom is a teacher. I once secretly observed my mother's appearance in class: my right hand covered with chalk ash was holding a piece of chalk and writing quickly on the blue-black blackboard, leaving neat and smooth handwriting where that hand slipped, like a soldier ready to go, and like wonderful notes; The other hand waved rhythmically up and down like a conductor. None of the students sitting below are not paying attention to the lecture, even the students who usually like to whisper are paying attention to taking notes. I miss the "notes" on the blackboard, because my mother's magical hands will not only be engraved on the blackboard, but also flow into the students' minds.
The hand in memory keeps writing miracles on the blackboard. When her peaches and plums came to see her, the most talked about was her mother's hand.
"Teacher, do you still remember that winter?" "How can you not remember?" Mother's eyes are full of joy. "That winter? What year was that? What's the matter? " I asked curiously. "You are' 100,000 Why'?" I ignored my mother's ridicule and listened attentively to my sister's story.
"That was my fourth grade. Mom and dad have a big fight from time to time, and I have no time to take care of my study and life. So my personality has become very withdrawn and I don't like to communicate with others. After school, I always hide in the corner of the classroom and lick my wounds, and my grades naturally plummet. Your mother was my head teacher. One day, I still clearly remember that it was very cold that day and I was dressed very thinly. Your mother quietly walked into the classroom, took off her coat and gently put it on me. She held my hand tightly. At that moment, my cold heart melted and I couldn't help crying in the teacher's arms? " Sister has tears in her eyes. "I still remember when you had a runny nose and tears, and I was screwed up by you." Mom said jokingly. My sister sobbed, squeezed her mother's hand and said gratefully, "Teacher, you know, your hands have been encouraging me for so many years, and I will think of them whenever I encounter difficulties and setbacks."
It turns out that my mother's hand not only appears in my memory, but also is a frequent visitor in other people's memory. At this time, I made up my mind to have a pair of warm and magical hands like my mother.
When the typhoon hit, the weather suddenly turned cold, and my mother couldn't help shivering. I held my mother's cold hand tightly, and I smiled, and my mother smiled with relief?
Composition 8: "Hand in Memory" The hand in memory in 800 words.
In life, there will be many hands that care for us: hands that have experienced many years of vicissitudes; Wide and warm hands; Small and delicate hands? However, among so many hands, grandma's hand with protruding blue veins and invisible hand bones is so clearly placed in my mind.
That's the hand that can make delicious food. The range hood in the kitchen is constantly "moving", and my grandmother bought a pink apron around the Lantern Festival. Even though this apron certainly doesn't fit grandma's age, she is very happy: "Isn't this good?" This apron looks good! "Grandma's hand trembled and picked up the vegetables in the basket. When the dish fell, the oil in the pot spilled out-on grandma's left middle finger. Grandma frowned slightly, but the dishes in the pot could not be ignored. I also had the experience of being splashed by oil when cooking: although it was only the moment when the oil spilled, my grandmother quickly dragged me to the bathroom, wiped a little with toothpaste, and then gently applied it to the back of my slightly swollen hand. Clear and cool, let me feel a light and comfortable mood that can dance.
All this was caused by grandma. I looked down at the delicious rice and delicious dishes in the bowl. My eyes are red because of the lump on my grandmother's hand and the sweat when cooking.
Those warm hands take care of everything for me and become the brightest place in my life.
Those are a pair of hands that can point out the clever embroidery of clothes. When I was in kindergarten, my good friend showed me a very beautiful sweater knitted by her mother. I am envious and a little jealous.
When I got home, I didn't know how to tell my grandmother that I wanted a sweater. After that, I was silent. Grandma saw that I didn't speak and turned into the room. Day after day, grandma has one less thing and one more thing to knit a sweater.
"Wear, return, lead", grandma repeated the knitting thread, but when grandma returned the needle, I saw grandma's shriveled hand clearly shaking the hole pierced by the needle. Although the hair has been dyed, the roots are still silvery white. In those years, let grandma go through the years of whitewashing. Grandma saw me and pulled me into the room and sat down. I feel it. Grandma's hands are warm. They are like the windows to my soul, always giving me sunshine and warmth. Grandma's hand stroked my little hand and said to me, "Look, the beautiful sweater that Grandma knitted for you is almost finished." Grandma continued to knit a sweater-it was a black sweater. I felt that my grandmother gave it life, let it work with her, and gave me the most meticulous care.
Those hands are noble, warm, kind, and more importantly. Grandma's hand will help me silently in the past, present and future, and help me enter the other side of my ideal.
Composition 9: "Hands in Memory of Composition" 1500 Words Hands in Memory In our memory, there are many different people, and naturally there are many different faces and many different hands. Some hands, without leaving traces on the rings of our memory, are gradually erased with the passage of time; However, there are some hands and some people that we will never forget. Perhaps, they are not radiant, but they are like soft moonlight, silently illuminating the night road for us. The hands in my memory are gentle, incredible, old but powerful. Those hands took me on a long road of painting. I remember it was several years ago, when I was a child after all. Although I love painting, I am very ignorant. My parents thought it was not a good idea to let me doodle by myself, so they "helped" me and signed me up for a painting interest class. Those hands are gentle. At that time, I just doodled at home and seldom dabbled in professional knowledge. Even in the first few classes, Lian Bi couldn't hold them correctly. I looked around at my classmates and saw that they were scratching their heads and were at a loss. The teacher raised his head and frowned slightly, as if he had found a problem with the students. I can only silently "pray" that the teacher will not break into a furious rage. But unexpectedly, this seemingly unsmiling teacher came to my desk and gently held my finger with her wrinkled hand, silently telling me how to hold the "disobedient" pen and how to draw smooth lines on the paper easily. I looked up slightly and saw the teacher holding the students' little hands one by one, leading them to walk on the drawing paper, farther and farther ... these hands are great. "Students, in this class, let's learn to draw morning glory." At that time, we had been getting started for nearly half a year, and finally we were "toddlers", wondering: I'm afraid there are more than a few flowers. I used to watch others draw very carefully, and it was easy to finish one. Can we be as competent as we are? The teacher seemed to see our doubts and didn't explain more. He raised his pen, dipped it in paint, and sprinkled three strokes on the paper first. Say that finish, gently turn the pen tip, outline the petals with beautiful shapes, flow and flow in one go, and a delicate morning glory has appeared on the rice paper. The students' eyes couldn't help but widen a little: these pens will turn into flowers, and those hands are really amazing. See the teacher changed a pen, first dipped in light ink, then dyed the nib with slightly thicker ink, then swept a few strokes at will, and then used the nib to outline the slender veins and vines, which were thick and light. Within a few minutes, a picture of morning glory appeared in front of us. However, watching the teacher draw so freely, it's really our turn to practice and we have encountered many problems. Sometimes too much pigment is scattered on the paper; Sometimes there is too little pigment, and the effect of painting is naturally unsatisfactory; Sometimes there is a problem with the dipping method of thick and light ink, which directly leads to the whole leaf becoming an "ink ball" without aesthetic feeling; Sometimes we paint the rattan in a hard and original color ... At this time, we can't help but sigh: "Those hands are incredible." Looking back now, I still feel this way. Those hands are old but powerful in the blink of an eye, and the coolness in the wind turns into biting cold. We will graduate from this class. Time flies, in a blink of an eye, the scene at the beginning is vivid, but today is the last class, and everyone is reluctant to leave. I can't remember what we were like in that class. What I remember clearly is the vigorous and powerful hands of the last teacher. "Students, today you will end the study of this class, but this does not mean that you have completed the whole learning process. This is an end and a beginning. I hope you can fly high and far. " Those hands gently picked up a piece of paper from Zhang Liangliang and handed it to each student. When the teacher handed me my diploma, I observed the hands that took me to the road of painting. Those hands are wrinkled, but there is still some paint on the fingertips. At the moment I got my diploma, I obviously felt the teacher's hand shaking. Back in my seat, I thought: the teacher must be reluctant to say goodbye to every student for so many years. With a pair of strong hands, she took so many students to the road of painting. What kind of great sacrifice spirit is it for so many years? The students were immersed in something, and the youngest girl even wiped her tears. In this extremely silent moment, the bell rang out of place. Our worst moment of farewell has finally arrived. After shaking hands with the teacher in turn, the students reluctantly walked out of the door we were already familiar with and turned around step by step ... After several years, we may not remember the classroom clearly, but we will always remember that those hands led us step by step on this road. ...
The hand in composition memory
The hand in composition memory
In the depths of my memory, there is always a pair of warm hands to encourage me and accompany me. Left an important mark on my life. Yes ~ that's mom's hand, mom's warm hand. When I was a child, I was very naughty and always got into trouble. I remember one time, I was playing with my friends and accidentally fell two stories high. Fortunately, it was just a scratch, but I was frightened and cried earth-shattering. My mother hugged me tightly, stroked my back and comforted me softly: Don't cry, don't cry, the baby should be strong ~, so I wrote down those warm hands in my young mind. In primary school, I had a high fever and stayed in bed for several days. My mother worried about me all day and all night, and worked hard for * * *. Looking at my mother's busy and tired figure, my heart hurts. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I always see my mother holding my hand in bed and sleeping soundly. Looking at her slender, * * * hands, has become so old and rough. Watching her once bright black hair gradually get frosty, my heart began to hurt again, and I silently made a wish in my heart. When I grow up, I must let my mother live the happiest life ~ but the warm hands in my memory also gave me a great blow. That year, I was stubborn and rebellious. I don't study hard and always get into trouble. Every time the teacher calls home and tells my mother about my glorious deeds, she will patiently reason with me without beating or cursing, but it seems that the effect is not great. I remember that day, I actually quarreled with my teacher. Although I knew it was wrong, I always felt that the teacher's injustice was unforgivable, so I boldly quarreled with the teacher. My mother was invited to school, but I still talked back to her and never repented. When she slapped me, I froze: my mother, who never hit me, actually hit me ~ I yelled at her crazily: I hate you ~ My mother's hand fell heavily on my face again. When I looked up and saw her injured eyes, I knew I was wrong. My mother's trembling hands hurt me very much, and my mother's heart hurts even more. I cried, and I cried with regret. After hitting my mother, she hugged me and cried. Her hands were pale, her veins stood out, and her palms were a little red and swollen. These cruel hands showed me my mother's deep love. Those hands in my memory have accompanied me through so many unforgettable days. It taught me to grow up, learn to be responsible, and also taught me a lot. It has brought me countless loves. Dream: Those hands hold me young. I looked up at the owner of my hand. Sweet, I smiled and called out the hands in my mother's memory. The warmth in memory-the surrounding air seems to be being pumped less and less. Look at that.
Everyone is so nervous to prepare for the mid-term exam, take a deep breath and want to relax. At present, they have drifted through many past scenes, but they are gradually wandering and staying in a pair of hands, chiseled, slender and beautiful. Things that seem far away are becoming clearer and clearer, so clear that the red mark on each of your knuckles is so completely presented to my eyes. When we were young, we were disobedient and naughty. In class, we always chat and pass notes, or we are tired and sleepy. In your class, everyone is still whispering so fearlessly. There was a pause in your lecture, and the harsh and powerful voice spread throughout the classroom. A group of children stopped crying. After a while, it gradually became noisy. You didn't scold us or stop us. You just knocked over and over again, just like knocking on my heart, your hand ... when you passed me, you quietly noticed your hand, and every knuckle was red. I think that's very painful. The hands in my memory reminded me and moved me even more. In an instant, you accompanied us to the fourth grade. I remember every time I took your class, I was scared. You never play cards according to common sense when you ask your classmates to answer questions. You walk around every seat at will, and when you talk about the emotional part in class, your beautiful hands will fall on the table next to you. Unfortunately, I seem to have many opportunities to be an unfortunate person. From the beginning of stuttering, embarrassed blush, to now calmly express their meaning. Although it is not perfect, it is a big progress for me. I gradually got used to it, and even looked forward to the soft and powerful sound when my hands fell on my desk. Whether you are interested or not, I want to thank you. Those hands in my memory gave me courage and confidence. We are about to graduate, holding a guest book and tapping on the office door. What happened? You asked with a smile. I just silently handed you the guest book. As the sun sets, warm orange is reflected in the room. Is it the light? Your side face is particularly serious. Your thumb nail is slightly longer, and the pen moves without warning, which hurts my eyes. Study hard in middle school and wish you success in the senior high school entrance examination in advance. Simple message, suddenly want to cry. The hand in my memory gave me farewell and blessing. I really want to see if those hands are the same as I remember. In this case, I will try my best to make the last wishes of those hands come true, so that I can swagger back to my hometown. There are still 46 days before the blessing is realized. When I picked up the pen, I couldn't stand it any longer.
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