You are my book

There have been philosophers: "Mother, is a book that can't be read." At the moment, I finally understood.

--Inscription

"Whirring whirring--"

got windy. The cold and biting wind passed over my face, and its cold fingertips passed over my hair, and I couldn’t feel gentle. The streets were cold and clear, and the bare little saplings stood on both sides of the road with pitiful sap, and the once vibrant grass became pale, and together with the flowers entered a sweet dream. A leaf fell on my palm, and I looked up and found that the few leaves left on the tree were crumbling, and I saw the leaves lying on the feet. It turned out that winter is coming.

I wrapped my clothes, licked the red-hot hand and walked home.

As soon as I entered the door, the familiar and warm home's breath wrapped me tightly. Gradually, my stiff and cold body gradually warmed up. "Hey. Drink a cup of warm water." Mom handed the cup in one hand and held my cold hand in one hand. He said distressedly: "Tell you to go out and wear more, you just don't listen. Now it's alright, freeze it." What do you do!" After that, she used her warm big hand to help me warm. "Yes. I will listen to you all the time." I replied with a baby look. Looking at my mother's worried face, my heart is warm.

As night fell, the earth was already asleep, except for the breeze blowing gently, except for the occasional dog barking, the cold streets were silent. I yawned, staring at my sleepy eyes and heading for the toilet. A faint light broke into my sight. Isn't that the mother's room? So late, why not sleep? I walked curiously.

In the room, I saw my mother holding a needle in one hand and an unfinished sweater in one hand, knitting one stitch. The eyes are firmly staring at the sweater on the hand, for fear of where the weaving is wrong, maybe it is old, and the eyes are not good. This is not, it seems that there is a wrong weaving, she quickly cuts and re-weaves, her eyebrows are upturned. Tightly frowning, the mouth continued to make a "squeaky, squeaky" voice, as if expressing dissatisfaction with his sweater.

I stood behind the door, and there was a complex emotion in my heart. It seemed to be touched and sad.

I don't know how long it took, my mother seemed to feel exhausted. She straightened her stiff body and gently slammed her shoulders, yawning constantly, and the movements in her hands continued. Under the light, a few silver filaments on the mother's head were doped in the thin black hair, and the crow's feet in the corners of the eyes were so obvious.

I can't bear to look at it again and go back to the room silently. Staring at the white wall, my mother's figure flashed in front of my eyes: worried mother, awkward mother, angry mother... . She is like a book of mine, a deep book that has been soaked in maternal love, a book with countless details.

There have been philosophers: "Mother, is a book that can't be read." At the moment, I finally understood.

The third day: Chen Xiaoting