Later, whenever I mentioned my happy birthday, in the gasping voice that was sometimes interrupted by the dry coughs of my grandmother, I found a lot of emotion. Touched by regret, because of pain. My teacher and mother married not because of love, but on that bitter contrast, I understood clearly and deeply from the age of seven to eight, at an age when curiosity is easily stimulated and intelligence is not easily aroused. Transparent innocence has recorded an image, a feeling is kept forever. The cold, quiet golden afternoons of winter, the afternoons when the dust and rain seem to whisper a whisper in the wind, the brilliant brazier fire flutters on the wall, shimmering pink or drooping lights. Dragging people’s minds into the nostalgic realms, the afternoons that numbed my mother most of all. Although my mother has me sitting in her lap laughing with dolls, although in front of my mother there is a whole meal of delicious food in the steam of sweet rice, although my mother is still smiling and always Dear my teacher and my grandmother.
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