多少作家、诗人,在他们的笔下,描绘、讴歌了多少温暖的家,充满希望的家,浸透哭声的家。我也曾有过一个温馨的家:温柔的妈妈,慈祥的爸爸,老实的哥哥,还有一个整天蹦蹦跳跳、不知烦恼的我。我是家中的太阳。爸爸特别爱我。冬天,他用粗大的手焐我冻红了的小手;平时,我常坐在他的大腿上,和他逗笑,和爸爸在一起,我是快乐的小天使。九岁那年,命运却无情地打碎了我的家:爸爸因病去世了,我下再是家中的太阳。 How many writers, poets, in their pen, depict how much warm home, full of hope home, soaked cries home. I also had a warm home: gentle mother, kind father, honest brother, and a day I bounce, I do not know troubles. I am the sun in my home Dad especially loves me. In winter, he used his thick hands to soothe my cold, red hands; in peacetime, I used to sit on his lap, laughing with him and with my dad, and I was a happy little angel. At the age of nine, my destiny ruthlessly broke my home: my father died of illness, and I was the sun again under my house.