老家,早已不再住人,只有那几间苔痕斑驳的低矮瓦房,坚守在森然蔽日的树木之中。年近八旬的父母也已经适应了城里的生活,只是每年的除夕那天,他们总要电话指挥隔壁二叔家的儿子,帮着在大门上贴上大红的对联。而每年仅有的一次回老家,也只有清明节的那次扫墓之行。如同日渐老去的父母一样,每年的这次回家,我们总感觉老家的房子越发陈旧,墙上的苔痕也越发浓密了。除此,岁月留给老家的,似乎还有簇拥在家前屋后因无人管理而枝杈日益 Home, long no longer live, only those few mottled mottled low tile-roofed house, stick to the trees in the shelter. Nearly eighty parents have also adapted to the city’s life, but each year’s New Year’s Eve, they always have to call the second-tert next door son, helped affixed to the door on the red couplets. The only time to return home every year, only the Ching Ming Festival that grave trip. Like the growing old parents, every time I return home, we always feel the old home is getting old and the moss on the wall is getting thicker. In addition, the years left to their home, it seems there are clusters of people in front of the house because of unmanaged twigs increasingly