Emotional prose in which a son should be filial and his father is absent.

My father died when I was just 19 years old. He took the last paragraph of his life as silence, turned into loneliness, turned into a faint sunset glow on the horizon, and gradually drifted away. He was 56 years old that year.

My father is of medium height, with light yellow skin, slightly convex cheeks and deep eyes under heavy eyebrows. To be exact, my father is good-looking, but a little short. He knows all about piano, chess, calligraphy and painting, but he is actually just a primary school teacher.

Father can tell many stories. I remember when I was a child, we often sat around the fire in winter, listening to my father tell stories and tell some folk jokes. My whole family sat together and listened, but no one commented. When it comes to highlights, I'm always the first to jump up and applaud.

In childhood, we didn't have fairy books and toys there. We just rely on our father's story to comfort our happy childhood.

Father attaches great importance to our knowledge education. At that time, the family was very poor, and a family of five depended on their father's meager salary, so they "overspent" every year, and my father insisted that we study.

When I was in junior high school, I always had the idea of going out to work because of my poor academic performance. When I sneaked into the house with my schoolbag on my back, my father flew into a rage and insisted that I go back to school. At this time, my father's health is not very good.

After the first semester of senior one, I don't want to study any more. I'm fed up with 45 minutes of suffering in each class. When I put this semester's report card in front of my family, he opened his muddy eyes and said loudly in a hoarse and slightly angry voice, I will catch up next semester. ...

But I understand that it is impossible to "catch up" with my scores at that time. Seeing this, my mother took the bag from me and came out of the back room for a long time. When I came out, I found my mother's eyes wet. ...

While my father was full of love and care for me, he also gave me corporal punishment. As I remember, several of us were beaten by him. Of course, the most frequent thing is that I am "among the best", because I have been naughty since I was a child, and I can be regarded as an unscrupulous guy.

Once, I drew ink on my classmates in front of me at school. In fact, the teacher pulled out my ear at that time. At that time, our primary school teachers always used this method to punish us hooligans, especially to raise our ears. If he pricks up our ears, we must stand on tiptoe, which can relieve the pain. How many times have I thought, if only people had no ears, so it wouldn't be so convenient to lift them. When I came back in the evening, I realized that the children at the same table had told on me in front of my father. When I wasn't looking, my father grabbed me and hit my ass with his big hand. When I was a child, I was afraid of my father's big slap. His big and powerful slap on my young ass suddenly turned into a "landscape painting". In contrast, the two sisters rarely get his "reward". Every time I am beaten, my mother always protects me, feels sorry for me, and always likes to quarrel with my father. As for the content of their quarrel, now I can only remember two sentences: my father said, "One fight, one defense, and I will never go on the road." From small to large, from three to old. "The mother replied," The child is too small and the tree is big and straight. "In my father's eyes, I will always be a disobedient and immature child.

13 years old, beaten by his father for the last time. I don't remember why. Frankly speaking, I didn't hate my father at all when he hit me. On the contrary, I think he is quite amiable, because I like listening to his conversations and telling stories, and I prefer talking to him.

Father has lymphoma. One afternoon in the deep winter of 2007, my father passed the final limit of his illness. He slept on the bed, his thin body was lying flat, and his mouth kept moving, as if he had something unfinished to say to his family, or rather to me. After a while, I saw his head leaning back, and there was no more movement. His eyes stopped moving, and his eyes without any waves still stared at the family for a long time, looking at the children and wife he left behind.

My father left like this, completed his 56-year-old life, entered another mysterious world with poverty and hardship and the beautiful expectations of the whole family for this human world.

Brother-in-law reached out and closed his father's eyes before or unwilling to close them, and wiped away two tears in the depths of his eyes, which were the last two lines of tears left by his father. Mom said she had never seen him cry in most of her life.

On the day my father was buried, the snowstorm that had been going on for more than half a month was unusually sunny. The whole village and fields are reflected in the winter sun, and the sky looks solemn, quiet and high.

This is a beautiful rural scene, but it is not suitable for our family to cry and shake their clothes.

This well is not dug deep. After digging, burn it in the pit with paper, then adjust it by Yin and Yang, put it on the coffin, and finally cover it with mud. Father was "buried" like this.

People come from nature and return to nature. Looking at the way my father was buried, I felt my mind was blank. ...

For three nights in a row, according to local customs, "delivering cigarette packets" means lighting a pile of straw not far from the cemetery, calling the name of the deceased every three steps when walking back, so that he can "take it" himself, and it has been used as a "fire" ever since.

Those nights, my brother-in-law took me, and it was dark all around. I hold on to my brother-in-law. In front of his father's grave, his brother-in-law bent down and lit the pile of straw. In an instant, the fire reflected our faces and lit up my father's newly raised mound. When we walked back, I shouted one after another, "Dad, come and get the cigarette case ...", and the voice echoed in the empty night, which was even more terrible.

Looking at the blurred mound and the fading flame, I wonder if life in the other world is the same as ours. Why do they rely on us to send fire like this? Seeing the fading red light, I seem to really see my father coming out of that mound and bending down to take that red fire back to "home".

Not long ago in Tomb-Sweeping Day, I came to my father's grave alone and looked at his thin and tiny grave bag. I knelt down slowly, but the feeling of that moment seemed to push me back to the scene of burial. I cried and silently said to my father, "Dad, I came back to see you, and you have this lonely home!" In fact, we are all lonely ... "

Unquenchable sadness made me cry at my father's grave. ...