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Shadow prose of the past

Time: 2021-02-12 14:35:07 Prose I want to contribute

Shadow prose of the past

Prose is a narrative literary genre which expresses the author's true feelings and flexible writing style. Let's take a look at the shadow prose in the past together with Xiaobian, hoping to help!

 Shadow prose of the past

Two years ago, or even longer ago, we left the place where we used to live. The wooden benches that couldn't be loaded into the car, the old books that were no longer opened, and the old people who murmured to themselves in front of the next door all day long stayed in the small village. When all the things that would be used were loaded into the car, my mother looked at the empty room. On one side of the lime wall, there were still several iron nails. Originally, there were still several pictures on the iron nails. But now my father and mother have taken everything they can take away. Apart from the holes in the wall, the only thing left is the dark green moss spreading from the corner of the wall.

My father had already gone out and sat on the co driver of the moving car. It was clearly late at night, but he was dressed in formal clothes. His face was hard to hide the joy of moving. My father was a vagabond. When he was young, he wandered around all the year round. Fortunately, he sent back supplies from time to time to support his mother. My father may bring anything when he comes home. His bag is my connection with the outside world. Every time my father came back, the only thing he did not change was to wear long shoes, long beard and long hair. He left home again after staying for a few days.

Then one day, my father came home again. He waved his hand and looked forward to me. Sitting on the uneven granite threshold, he smoked in silence. The smell of smoke was not heavy, but he spent the afternoon under the eaves. My father didn't smoke a lot. At that time, I couldn't know what happened. I only remember that day when my father was very silent. The silence was terrible. Then one day, I moved into a textile machine. My mother murmured and began to operate it day and night. Around the textile machine, there were large green bags. When I came home in the evening, I had to remove one layer of obstacles. Finally, when I came to my mother's face, I only had the strength to breathe.

Father seems to be a little changed, he is still often left home, but always come back in the evening, but he did not bring back anything. Mother began to scold his father, and there was friction between them from time to time. Father smoked more and more frequently, he said less and less, and his mother's face became more and more ugly. One day, my father left home in the early morning, and it was late at night when he went back again. His father came home with moonlight. Sweat fell on his face on the green textile bag and the rice bowl in front of him. It seemed that mother knew something. She picked up the coat that his father had thrown on the ground, but he didn't say anything this time. Father finished his meal, took a bath and went to bed. The sour smell of clothes and the sound of sleeping snores reverberated throughout the room. All I know is that my father will never take it out of his purse again. It will amaze me.

Until one day, after his father was full of wine and food, he said excitedly that he was going to buy a big house in the town. His eyes were shining with the light of a long journey many years ago. He was as happy as a child. My father lived with my grandfather and lived in the tiled house next to my grandfather for 40 years. His home here is a part of his life. As he grows old, he is no longer young, and his home here has become his hometown.

Mother is still standing in the old house, covering the furniture and chopsticks with white cloth, because she will come back later, we think so. A few days ago at dusk, I went home, opened the white cloth, and saw the layer of dust, I finally thought that many things will not only dust from the outside area, whether it is the wood in the corner or the tableware in the cupboard, tightly wrapped with white cloth, but there is no way to prevent them from whitening from the inside.

On second thought, it seems that father's hair is beginning to turn white.

[shadow prose in the past] related articles:

one Let it be bygones

two Prose about shadow

three Prose: Shadow legend

four Lyric Prose: let go of the past

five Let go of the past Lyric Prose

six Past is past prose

seven Model prose of the past

eight Prose: let the past and the future come

nine It's time for the past to pass, prose

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