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一晚风拂动,暮色四合时,老头拄根拐棍又来到我家。他左肩搭个细长袋子,一双露出脚趾头的破鞋拖在脚上,哒哒地走进我们的视线,在高大的青石门槛前站定。棍子倚靠墙壁放下。右手哆嗦着,从布袋子里摸出一只青蓝颜色的海碗。破了边沿的海碗越过门槛,正对向中堂里的大方桌,方桌上已经上好冒着热气的饭菜。他是算定这个时间来的,连续三天都这样。他总是等不及的样子,脖子拉直,眼神直直地盯住方桌,嘴巴闭合,看不出喉结的喉咙痉挛般蠕动。
A breeze blowing, Twilight Sihe, the old Zhu root stick and came to my house again. His left shoulder and take an slender bag, a pair of toe-covered shoes dragged on his foot, da da into our sight, standing in front of the tall blue stone threshold. Sticks lean against the wall. Trembling with his right hand, pulled out from the cloth bag a blue-color sea bowl. Breaking the edge of the sea bowl crossed the threshold, is facing generous tables in the hall, the square table has been good to take the hot meals. He is counting this time, for three days in a row. He always could not wait to look, his neck straightened, eyes staring at the square table, his mouth closed, do not see the Adam’s apple throat spasm-like peristalsis.