You touched me, mom

"Mother in the hands of the line, wandering clothes..." Whenever I read this poem, I thought of my mother, the composition of Women's Day: You touched me, mother. I am deeply touched by the many things my mother has done inadvertently.

"Mother in the hands of the line, wandering clothes..." Whenever I read this poem, I thought of my mother. I am deeply touched by the many things my mother has done inadvertently.

I am a child who grew up in a single-parent family. Just five months after my birth, my father left me because of a car accident. It’s a mother who pulls me hard and hard. In order to make me happy, my mother always tries her best to meet my requirements. Mother often said; "Other people's children eat, wear, and have a family, what other children's children learn, we also learn, the national essays "The essay on Women's Day: You touched me, mother." But these are all money! In order to earn money, my mother opened a barber shop. I have to wash my hair, burn my hair and dye my hair for days and nights. A pair of hands were soaked in the potion all day long, and soon the white hands became red, ten fingers, swollen. The doctor said that it is allergic and told her mother not to touch the potion. But my mother still insists on working, and the hands are getting more and more ugly. Not only is the skin black and red and crumpled, but the 30-year-old is like a forty-year-old hand. I can't bear to look at my mother's hand, because every time I see the hands, my heart is broken.

One winter, my mother’s hand finally couldn’t help but cold. On the palm of your hand, the cracks of four or five centimeters a centimeter are split, like a small open mouth. In the mouth, the tender red meat was revealed. One touch is the pain of knife cutting. In the evening, I saw my mother quietly hiding in the bathroom and giving her medicine. Her mouth twitched gently, as if she had to endure something. I think: It must be painful, my mother doesn't want me to notice. I asked my mother a handache? Mother, if nothing has said, "Isn’t the hand of labor not like this?" Suddenly, I burst into tears...

Ah, mother, the hand of your laborers, I am deeply touched. I want to hold you in the hand that hurts me. I don’t know if these hands can stop and rest for a rest!

Painting Bridge Middle School. Wu Zhonghua

Second day: Wu Zhonghua