The old man was lying on the rocking chair, smoking a dry cigarette, and the folds on his face also collected smoke floating down. With his right hand, he knocked the wooden cigarette rod casually on the marble nearby, and the sound of "pida, pida" gradually faded away. In his left hand, he twirled a faded and yellowed old photo. Deeply, as if he was about to fall asleep.
The setting sun reflected the smoke from the kitchen, and the sound of my wife's invitation for dinner drifted from the kitchen with the smoke. The daughter-in-law held her infant grandson in her arms, and the grandson's little nose arched up and down, sucking the milk that was getting closer to spring. The son came out of the woodshed, helped the old man up with a hearty laugh, and lit a cigarette in the old man's dry pipe.
The visitor did not reply, but said plainly: "A home of common people is not limited by food and drink; from south to north, regardless of season; by tens of thousands of people, not limited by wild markets; widows, widowers, lonely and disabled people are all supported; the night is like day, and the four seasons are calm."
Watching the visitor leave, the old man stood there silently. His once-straight waist was still stooped after all, and there were faint stars in the corners of his eyes, just like a scarecrow standing there quietly, recalling the past, waiting for the flowers to bloom in spring.
Purpose: A record of an ordinary revolutionary of the older generation