我拿起笔,泪水又一次沾湿了稿纸……12月5日午休时间,爱人把我从睡梦中唤醒,她声音颤抖地说:“刚接到电话可染老师去世了……”“谁说的?!”我还躺着,急切地想问个究竟,但顿时一个字也吐不出,我的眼睛睁得大大的,却什么也没有看见,泪水早已从眼角淌到耳边,从耳边流到脖颈……当我和爱人一口气赶到老师家中的时候,步入老师的画室,我再也感受不到以前那习惯了的宁静、舒缓、冲融、温暖的气氛,再也听不到老师那细细的、慢慢的、慈母般的关切和教导,耳边传来的是慌乱的出出进进的脚步声,老师的画案上,散乱着,他常用的放大镜、毛笔、宣纸,厚厚的资料袋都未 I picked up the pen and the tears once again moistened the manuscript ... On the afternoon of December 5, my sweetheart woke me up from her sleep. Her voice trembled and said: “Just after the telephone call, the dye teacher died ...” "Who said I still lie, eager to ask what exactly, but suddenly a word can not spit, my eyes wide open, but did not see anything, the tears have already drip from the corner of my eyes to the ear, from the ear Flow to the neck ... ... When I and my lover breath arrived at the teacher’s home, into the teacher’s studio, I never feel the habit of that before the quiet, soothing, flushing, warm atmosphere, and then listen Less than the teacher that thin, slow, mother-like care and guidance, the ears came the panic out of the footsteps came, the teacher’s painting, scattered with his commonly used magnifying glass, brush , Rice paper, thick bags are not