In a blink of an eye, I was 7 years old, and my mother took me by the hand and sent me to school. I remember my mother's hands were so white and soft. I feel happy when her strong hand holds my little hand. It is in this hand-in-hand that my mother injected selfless and holy maternal love into my life. So I can always find various reasons for my mother to hold my hand, even though I have learned to walk. But then something happened that made me feel guilty and didn't let my mother hold my hand again.
What a beautiful autumn day it is! When my mother dragged me across the small bridge at the head of the village, I had a whim and asked my mother to take my hand and fly forward. Who knows, just as I was intoxicated with the ecstasy of running, my mother accidentally dislocated her wrist! Looking at the painful expression of my mother when the doctor treated her, I seemed to feel that I was in pain when I was a child, and I made up my mind from then on: I will never let my mother hold my hand again!
The wheels of years flew by, and I grew up unconsciously. I really never walked hand in hand with my mother again.
Studying in a different place will occasionally remind me of my mother, my childhood, but not the years when my mother held my hand. Until one day, when I saw a young mother holding a toddler girl, my heart suddenly trembled and I had an impulse to go home and let my mother hold hands again. Finally home. My mother and I looked at each other for a long time. My mother said happily that I had grown taller, but I found my mother much older. "The debt of white-haired children is deeply branded with years." The mother takes her aging as the price of her daughter's growth! I put down my luggage, took my mother's hand and whispered, "Mom, let's go out for a walk." Mom looked a little surprised, and then happily walked out of the house with me. It is still the small bridge at the head of the village, or the mother and daughter of that year. My mother's hands are still warm and powerful that year, but they are no longer white and soft. Her hands are black and rough, with cracks in some places and thick cocoons on her palms. Holding my mother's bony hand, I feel that I am not touching her hand, but her vicissitudes of life for most of my life. That afternoon, my mother was very happy and told some trivial things about daily necessities. I also listened patiently. When I was a child, I made up my mind not to let my mother hold my hand again. Now, I want to say: "Mom, hold my daughter's hand through the wind and rain and the four seasons!" "
Life is like a journey, you don't have to care about the destination; What you should care about is the scenery along the way and the mood of watching the scenery. Let's take a piece of paper with us, whether it is yellow or new. Look at the clouds, the flowers bloom and the flowers fall. Recording the bits and pieces of the journey, as well as those who have warmed us and touched us, will become indelible beautiful scenery in life.
We are not alone, there are always people along the way. I miss those innocent years, those days when I climbed over the fence and sneaked into school, those days when I shook the bell and hummed nursery rhymes, and those days when I hid in the quilt during my lunch break. In those days, we often walked hand in hand.
I remember those midsummer days, when we stood in the shade and drank iced soda. The water is sweet and cold, and it keeps flowing into my heart. As a result of sweating, strands of hair stuck to our foreheads. We touched the bottle and smiled happily, even the cicada's voice was forgotten. What a simple happiness.
Because the school gate was closed, we climbed over the low wall next to it and accidentally cut our hands, and the deep red blood suddenly oozed out. Even so, I gritted my teeth and said it didn't hurt at all. You must have laughed at me then. Obviously, you have to pretend to be a grinning man. Then he said he would drag me to the infirmary to get my medicine.
Afternoon is the happiest and shortest time. We set the clothes as the goal and started running all over the field. On the small court, our laughter echoed.
A short line rushed across the sky, followed by the second and third lines. Then I heard a bang and the sound of raindrops hitting the leaves. Boring, I just think it's raining. You took my hand and ran away, the next second. I almost fell down several times, but I still held your hand tightly. Finally, we running all the way came under the eaves, looked at each other already soaked, and smiled happily.
Although I have drifted away these days, I inadvertently look back and the scenery remains the same. None of you have left. Thank you for walking me that way. You have given me strength, so that no matter how steep mountains, muddy and rugged roads and swift rivers I encounter in the future, I will never hesitate again!
I will carefully collect all the warmth in the softest corner of my heart. Maybe one day, when I meet the winter of my life, I will wake them up, let the once-touched heart ripple again and melt the frost of this season.
Pack your bags and wave goodbye to the clouds. I'm going on my way again. Life flies, I will cherish every minute on the road, and I will miss the beautiful scenery on the journey.
What's my next stop?
To write a good article, we must first learn to cultivate our ability to capture the moments that touch our lives. It should be noted that the author of this paper is good at understanding the little things in life through memories, and then conceives such an elegant work full of warmth and affection. Good friendship pervades the article, and cherish the friendship that jumps under the pen tip. Our readers seem to trace back to that eternal era. The beautiful display of writing style, the smooth expression of emotions, especially the use of some classic poetic languages, such as "Waving Farewell to Clouds All over the Sky" and "Clouds Rolling and Clouding, Flowers Blooming and Flowers Falling", all show the author's cultural accumulation well.