The element of filial piety requires the elderly not to have a mother.

Have a heart, tied with gratitude; There is a feeling that is connected with kindness; There is also a mood, with gratitude. -inscription

The days in late autumn are cold and quiet. I saw the swaying solitary branches reluctantly torn off by the autumn wind, leaving only a few dead leaves. I can only hear the wind blowing dead leaves. A cup of tea in front of the table, revived, can not help but be dyed withered color, curly tea in a trance into a thin face, familiar and unfamiliar. Unconsciously, I remembered your haggard appearance: thin black eyelashes were inserted in her eyes like sharp needles, and not too thick eyebrows were dotted on her old face like wheat ears looking up at the sky; The wrinkles on her face are like the rough skin of a pine tree, and the traces of vicissitudes are immersed in the memories of the years. Her narrowed eyes only gave off a glimmer of longing. My grandma.

Time flies, the scene that happened between us more than ten years later flashed by like a movie, and everything was far away and sad.

The birch forest in autumn has long been dyed brilliant gold by the gorgeous glow. You sang the most beautiful nursery rhyme behind my back. I looked around curiously and rolled around in the wild. I always ran a distance, accidentally fell down, and looked back at the anxious look when you ran towards me. When you reach your eyes, you wipe your sweat, crouch down, and put your hands over the gray hair that fell from your temples. Blame me me for being careless. At that time, I always turned grief into joy and jumped on your camel's shoulder again, but I didn't find the sweat dripping from your forehead shining like pearls. This forest is full of unforgettable memories between us. Every fragment shines with love.

This light cage shines on my childhood, as if I had been blessed by God. It gave me a clear heart and a simple soul.

Of course, there are tears and bitterness in this laughter. When I was six years old, I had to go to primary school. I cried and said nothing. You advised me again and again, but I said vaguely, "If you push me again, I will jump off the building." You are sad, and your eyes are dripping with tears of mist. Bloodshot eyes are more bloody against pale skin. I was so shocked that I didn't want to say a word, and I didn't dare to reveal a trace of sobs. Your voice trembled: you ... I've never seen you so angry. I know, I hurt the softest place in her heart, where her favorite child is hidden. What I didn't expect, however, was to finish this memory from my neighbor.

In September of that year, my grandmother put down decades of strength and self-esteem for me, kneeling and begging the principal to accept me as a student without a local hukou. Finally, under the earnestly pleading, I became an auditor until I returned to my mother two years later. Thought of here, countless thoughts welled up in Hua Song's mind. Grandma, are you okay now? I miss the familiar yard, the lush old pagoda tree with crooked neck, and I miss everything you have done to me. The autumn wind is cool, so you put warm clothes on me with rough hands. Under the old eaves, we don't have to be sad to watch the breeze fiddling with the petals, floating around and landing, and the faint fragrance of flowers scattered all over the place. Quietly, there is another flower. I will pick it tomorrow and put it in your ear to cover up your old appearance.

The Double Ninth Festival is coming, and it's time to be grateful. Autumn is still the sunset, rushing across the balcony and sprinkling on the green cycads. Her favorite flower is no longer in full bloom, but has always been lush. May her life be so lush.

However, the meat cleaver of time has ruthlessly carved a gully on her face. I know he has worked hard for decades. Bright and deep eyes are also covered with gloom, and a weather-beaten face looks so haggard under the silvery white of the temples. Your face tells the hard work of an old man and his ardent hope for his children.

Today's grandmother is old and weak, but no one takes care of her. I think there are countless old people in the world who are worried at the end of their lives; Sitting in an empty room; I just heard a busy signal on the phone. We don't want to hear any more rude abuse in the room; I don't want to see old people wandering in the street and begging in front of pedestrians but not being taken seriously; I don't want to think about the helpless eyes of those old people who can't die. Let's look at their eyes. That's your future. Do you have the heart to treat yourself in the future like this? Let gratitude begin with them.