Under the lamp at night, you have been standing and waiting for me ......--Title
Remember? That winter, you stood under the lamp silently waiting for me.
It was Friday again, another day to go home. Grandpa, who had guarded his loneliness for a week, happily went up the street to buy many of my favorite foods and waited for me to come home.
As evening approached, I had not yet arrived home. Maybe it's because the winter night comes especially early, everything around is immersed in a sea of black, only a few street lamps sporadically lit on the roadside to bring a little light to this piece of darkness. I know, at this time, grandpa will stand under the street lamp, eyes always staring at the direction of my home. At this time, the wind is raging, the bone-chilling cold wind must have blown into every cell of your body. I know you were cold and probably shivering, but I know you would have still been standing under that streetlight waiting for me.
I finally appeared on my bike in the same direction you were staring. You laughed, smiling like a child, and the wrinkles on your face became more pronounced. Your nose was frozen red, like a snowman in a black down jacket. When I got closer, you asked me with concern, "Why are you so late? Is it cold?" Before I could answer, you went on, "I've bought a lot of your favorite food, just waiting for you to come home! I'll take your bag." Without any further ado, you forcibly carried my schoolbag on your back. I knew that the bag was heavy, and that you could not withstand such a weight in your old age, because you were obviously much slower. "It's not heavy, you were much heavier than a school bag when you were a kid, and I still carried you around on my back." Said Grandpa, smiling brightly. A cold wind blew, blew up your gray hair. I couldn't resist you, so I had to hold on to you tightly.
At this time, the warmth in my heart drove away the coldness, and I couldn't help but shed hot tears: Grandpa, you treat me too well, I'm really, really happy!
Because of you, I fell in love with this season, fell in love with this winter that has melted ice into water, full of warmth.
The second article
Finally, I can talk about snow. Although the forecast, but still in front of the memory of this rare snow was shocked, as if looking back to the fall and winter when a gorgeous turn.
Both the surprise of the snow, there is a talk about the mood of the snow. To be honest, although it is not like "plum wife and son" like a metaphor, snow is the wind and flowers in the snow and moon in my favorite one. The snow-covered, silver, "Suddenly like a spring breeze, thousands of trees, thousands of trees pear blossom" "plum must be inferior to the snow three points of white, snow, but lose a section of the fragrance of the plum" these descriptions of the snowy scene of the story, but also not to say a swarm in front of the collection of.
I love the snow, as most people like the snow, seemingly no clear reason. Is she white and flawless, simple and elegant taste? She is also the illusion of the real wonderful? Or is she silent on the ground to eliminate the humility of the fragrance convergence charm? Or is it because she is getting rarer and rarer that she has developed a long-lost thirst?
I love the snow, but also because she came to a flurry of disturbances in the sky covered with a vast momentum; because she from the tolerance in the unconstrained, spilling in the no demand; and with the celestial music interpretation of the sky and the earth petals fall in a beautiful and poignant cabaret.
I love the snow, and because she is similar to the spirit of youthful breath, pure love and aesthetic, more than the flowers than the rain flirtatious than the wind and some real, both leisurely and elegant and handsome in the face, such as confused and disorienting words of poetry sadness, and the soft as if no bones of the body, counting her through the aroma of the light sadness.
I love the snow, but also because she is like "ask what is the love of the world" sentiment, can be encountered and can not be sought character, so that she fluctuated in the metaphysical landing in the real, both the warmth in the tenderness and condensation such as Si, as if the valley orchid in love with the whispering of a solitary fragrance.
The misty snow ah, the winter spirit, you are my silent dream secret thoughts? Or is that the sea with the wind in the hope of lost hope? Or is it a fragment of the memory of the little sister who has passed away in the rain of flowers?
The snow, your painting scrolls stretching pheng song wonderful hand, is to the whole world are wrapped in silver to go, or want to the personal world whitewashed peace, grudges no longer?
Only at the moment my thoughts are stagnant and commonplace, a moment can not be clear to you. I can only smile: because you, I fell in love with this season.