The young wheels growing on the door frame

On the Beijing-Changhai Expressway, the direction plate was shocked by his wife\’s questions: \”Are you just a red paper in the eight hundred men?\” The wheels were rolled over the speed-reducing belt, like the squeaking sound of the axle of the door of the extremely old house.

Wang Jianguo took out the melted fruit candy paper. Last Qingming Festival, before my father\’s house, this burnt yellow sweet suddenly appeared in the fire. The pendant characters are scattered into ink plum blossoms, and the words \”The spring is the most complete in the village\” stand stubbornly on the back of the candy paper, like the ever-right backbone of the father.

The old house in the valley in southern Anhui is like a tribe with an upside down. Thirteen pen marks on the door frame are the contours of time. The top one is parked at 1.78 meters. When he was eighteen years old, he was going to work in Shenzhen. His father broke his eyeglass while trying to measure his height on tiptoe. The upper half of the window table was covered with the matches and was still guarding the smell of the father\’s fragrance. In the crimson pot, the mother\’s maize turned back into weeds and danced in the wind through the hall.

The thorn of the \”Brother is the King of Farts\” poked out from the new joint, and the thirty-eight-year-old general manager and the eight-year-old cowherd reunited on the door. Uncle San from the county sent the phone: \”Five three dollars a month, and you are waiting for you.\” When the bulldozer opened into the village ten years ago, Wang Jianguo smashed all the annual rewards into the village committee office.

When my wife pressed the door, the sun was painting gold paint on the door. The faded door god\’s note was watching the man\’s tiptoe and slim spring pleats. In the CBD grid outside the six hundred kilometers, the figure measuring life with PPT was now being gently sucked by the young wheel on the door frame.

Unlock the red circle on the picture paper and can never surround the long moss memory. When we carve the clan\’s sect in the concrete, the height lines on the door frame, the wild maize ears in the window, and the childish words on the back of the spring fence are the beams and pillars that truly lift the top of the clan\’s dome. The old house is not a ruin, but a tree that grows backwards. The roots on the ground know how to live better than the flowers on the branches

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