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Back view Xu Wenyi is vaguely, with a sly back, holding my little hand and walking in the evening of the end. In my mind, "Father" is a familiar and unfamiliar word. My memory of him only stays at the age of six. In the autumn of that year, the falling yellow leaves took away all the father's nostalgia for the family. He only left me and my mother a back, a broken back. When I was young, I didn't know where he was going. I looked at the mother who was sitting helplessly crying on the ground. An unpredictable hunch was born. This feeling forced me to yell at the back: "Dad..." The child of tenderness The sound broke the silent silence, and the back of the front paused, and then stepped forward, disappearing into the falling leaves, no turning back, no words. The mother said that the father is gone and will never be with us anymore. In the memory of the six-year-old, what the father left for me was the back of the dead leaf that was buried with the memory of the father. The memory of twenty years old always carries a thick sense of sadness. I am holding the mother's hand when I am childish. I saw my father again after four years. I didn't expect it to be in prison. The father wore a gray dress and stood in front of me. His eyes flashed a fleeting expression of joy. The mother said, "Come, call Dad." father……? I carefully looked at the man in front of me. I seemed to want to find out the shadow of my father in memory. In memory, he was a man wearing a police uniform and awesome, but not as decadent as he was. I sat on my mother's lap, boringly pulling the skirt, listening quietly to the conversation they had after four years, what was the specific content, I can't remember clearly, anyway, for me, this moment The memory is blank, about some greetings, and then a silence..... In the spring of March, the flowers are blooming, and life is everywhere, but in this small prison room that seems to be isolated from the outside world, it makes me feel The stock is mixed with sorrow and helplessness. Sanchun went to summer, and another four years of tempering was enough to turn a childish girl into a girl. It seems that I am used to life without a father. I enjoy beautiful youth together with other classmates. I will cover all my father’s memories and thoughts in the deepest part of my heart. Only when I am only myself will I feel that one. The amount of wine, such as wine, is more and more mellow. At the age of fourteen, I saw the man I called "the father" again after I was ten years old. He is a lot older. In the past few years, the bright battle in the mall has turned his bright silk into a slight hair. White, the years ruthlessly draw a gully on his face, the suit of the pen makes him seem to have a moment to coincide with the image of the father in memory, but I found that the father in front of me lost the memory in this moment. The kind that should be kind and kind. His arm was held by a strange woman. My father looked at me. There seemed to be an emotion in my eyes, but I could not understand anything. For a long time, my father’s powerful voice rang in my ear: "This is your stepmother." He introduced me to this woman next to him. "Auntie is good..." I tried to raise my heavy mouth and wanted to smile very happily. I wanted to use my smile to hide my fragility. However, I still can't do it after all. I silently bowed my head and didn't want to. Let my father see the sadness in the deepest part of my eyes. I hold back my tears and want to fill the cup of my heart with my bitter wine for my father's memories and feelings. I buried it for a long time. My father and the woman said with a smile and left. I looked up and looked at my father. The back of the picture can't help but think of the break when my father left home at the age of six. He felt that the distance between himself and his father was like a line, and he was pulled farther and farther away - I didn't have the courage to catch up with him. As far as I am afraid to keep him, I dare not hold his hand. . . . . . The memory of the father seems to be just a patchwork of one by one. The memory of the father seems to be the most ambiguous, and it is the most real. Isn’t the father in memory supposed to hug me in a playground full of joy? The father in memory, shouldn’t you caress my head with a big hand? The father in memory, shouldn’t I take my hand and walk on the muddy path? But when I saw this back in front of me, I found that the person who has this back can't give me all this.... The deepest part of memory, I always prayed for a picture: at dusk, my father took My little hand. The sunset will pull our backs long and long.......

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