孩子需要的也就是父母的爱惜哈。
我家宝宝写了一篇小说， 就是写妈妈和女儿的。 给猫妈读读啊。
My mother's kitchen is quiet.
There is no sound except the water and her rhythmic chopping amidst the silence of a windless afternoon.
One, two, three, four ...
I count slowly, nails tapping at the table as I study my mother's apron; the same blue-green flowers that left imprints in my mind from a period long ago.
Five, six, seven...
Sunlight laces with the faint scent of her kitchen, a mixture of oil and steam and imported Tieguanyin tea. The familiarity lumps in the back my throat; small details drifting back as I inhale, deeply.
Beside her chopping board there is an array of brightness, the redness of tomatoes, paleness of skinned potatoes and green shallots, their skin vanished with droplets of water, their smell as raw as their colours. Mother grips the chopping knife firm with age roughened fingers. They transport me back to a more innocent time, when my mother's hands had been thinner, milkier white. I wonder if I read too much into her hands now, maybe back then they had appeared less burdened with time simply because I saw through a layer of naivety, because I knew less.
.......
