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午休后,我习惯懒懒地靠在沙发上看报纸。八十岁的母亲端着一盘切好的香瓜,把瓜瓤掏得干干净净,放在了我面前。“吃块儿瓜。”母亲轻声细语地说着。我顺手拿了一块儿,吃一口,觉得没味儿,就又放回了盘子里。“怎么了?”母亲有些诧异。“不甜。”我说。“不会吧?那些小贩说巴盟瓜,头茬甜得很呢。”母亲疑惑着,将我放回盘子的香瓜尝了尝。“咋会这样哪,唉!这年头,真是……”
After lunch break, I used to lazily leaning on the sofa reading newspapers. Eighty-year-old mother carrying a cut of cantaloupe, the melon dig out to clean, placed in front of me. “Eat a piece of melon. ” Mother said softly. I took it with my hand, ate it, feel no taste, they put back the plate. “What happened? ” Mother surprised. “Not sweet. ” I said. “Not? The hawkers said Pamela melon, the first stubble is very sweet. ” My mother wondered, the melon that I put back the plate tasted. “Ye would be like this, alas! This year, really ... ”