洁白的墙壁,洁白的被褥,一张皱纹密布的黝黑脸膛,在白色的衬托下,显得欲加沧桑凝重。他双目微闭,仿佛在沉思,又像在做一个浅浅的梦。输液管中的药液,不紧不慢地滴着,静静流进他的血管中,像水流进干旱枯萎的禾苗。他是我的父亲,今年七十二岁。我和父亲相处了四十多年,还是第一次这样近距离观察父亲。父亲确实老了,斑白凌乱的头发,花白的短须,塌陷的双颊,处处显示一个人变老的特征。如果让我回忆父亲变老 White walls, white bedding, a wrinkled dark-skinned face, against the background of white, appears to want to add vicissitudes of dignified. His eyes closed, as if meditating, as if doing a superficial dream. Fluid in the infusion tube, dripping slowly and quietly into his blood vessels, like water flow into the dry withered seedlings. He is my father, seventy-two years old this year. My father and I have lived together for forty years and for the first time observed my father at this close distance. His father is indeed old, white messy hair, pale short, collapsed cheeks, everywhere shows the characteristics of an aging. If I recall my father getting older