The woven bamboo cradle swayed, and my grandfather let out a long sigh from his tobacco bag.
The fire in the stove illuminates grandma's face, and she is thinking about the grain in the warehouse.
The sound of my father's motorcycle is always outside the clouds
Grandma lowers her head to pick up the soles of her shoes. The stitches are dense and long.
The school bags are empty, the certificates are full and no one expects them
Suddenly one day my name changed and the word "Amei" sounded on the paper.
Plum blossoms fall in the mud, no one cares whether they are fragrant or not
Grandpa's cigarette pipe was broken into pieces. Grandma's words were carried by the wind.
Grandma is leaning against the old locust tree. No one calls her mother.
Concept: reality, female self-examination