Grandpa left, and his breath was sucked away by the darkness.
A book is on the last page.
In the afternoon, he sat in the cane chair as usual. Shaved head
It exudes a halo of bodhi, and it seems to be serene and quiet.
I didn't cry this afternoon. But I know grandpa is really gone.
I was fourteen years old that year
Since then, that room, as well as the whole room, has fallen into deep darkness.
It is also empty, just like a rusty clock.
Those hanging cobwebs are covered with cool dust.
Wooden stairs are fixed on breathing eyes.
No one communicates with it with both hands anymore.
Twenty-one years have passed. I repeatedly touch the dialect full of body temperature with my feet.
Space-time is separated by thick dust, and there is as much dust as there is.
How many sinking days and nights
On the mud wall on the left side of the wooden stairs is a broken and dim old newspaper.
These barren days are grasslands with withered white hair.
Those shadows lost their lightest weight when they walked.
The loud shout was suppressed.
Those body temperatures and dialects are posted on the drafty walls everywhere.
Wooden stairs hold my grown feet in my palm. Every step, I was lost by my long-lost family.
Warm touch A thirsty seed has been wetted by dew of tears.
Still the boy who seems to be in the past.
Memories are as light as dust
Everything is looming, flickering.
I walked up the wooden stairs.
I walked down the wooden stairs.
Twenty-one years, fleeting.
Those delicious cereals, the greedy children are still there.
Xu Qiang