Life is like a busy street, friends, relatives, loved ones come and go, shuttle in the crowd, and finally annihilated in the sea of people. Only the parents followed each other silently until the twilight was still behind. In your ups and downs, suddenly look back and marvel "you are in" when a smile, without saying a word.
The memory of my young father is very vague. He works out of town for 3/4 of the time a month. As soon as he comes back, he goes back to his room to sleep. I seldom talk to him, so I often sneak into his room and watch him fall asleep full of curiosity and excitement. My mother once said that when I first remembered, every time my father came home and begged me for a hug, I would cry back to him. I can't believe I don't remember him.
Maybe it was this experience when I was young that my father was always full of guilt, so much so that my father spoiled me in every way since then. My father said his daughter should be well-nourished, so he always bought me a lot of things and enjoyed it. He would spend time with me every weekend, even if we sat on the same sofa and didn't talk about all kinds of things. He will hold my hand every time he goes out and be full of joy, whether I am ten, fifteen or twenty. He was never as vigorous as a song to allow my passion, but he stayed with each other silently.
The honor of youth adds to me, the one who accompanies me is always my mother, while the one who runs among teachers and leaders is my father. There was a lot of trouble during the rebellious period. it was always my mother who raised the stick, but it was my father who handled the trouble for me all night. When I made many mistakes in the exam, it was always my mother who cheered me up, but it was my father who stayed up late with me silently.
How frivolous a teenager is, the old father is as usual. If the child is a kite, the father is the one pulling the kite string. No matter how high the sky is and the sea is wide, whether we are submerged in the blue sky and white clouds, there is always one person who knows our existence.
Dear father, you are not absent from my life. Although there are few pictures of you in the album, I am very glad to have you holding the camera to take pictures of me; although you seldom appear in the parents' meeting, I am very happy to have you waiting for me to come out in the car; although you have few words in the station, but I am glad to have you standing there and watching me leave.
You once said that I will always be a twelve-year-old girl in front of you. Tree shadow mottled memory film, you look at the road ahead of me, have long known that one day, your little girl will run away from your world. How you wish I would never grow up, and how eagerly you want me to grow up. Time is the most ruthless, it wantonly engraves the trace of years on your face, the eyes laugh lightly, in an attempt to break the hope that you will always be by your daughter's side. Messy white hair seems to remind you that you are no longer young. You do not have the strength to run with me, even if you stumble, you still follow me closely. Maybe one day you can't walk any more, but you said you would wait for me at home all the time. You said home was the only place where I wouldn't get lost. As long as I looked back, I could see it.
Father, thank you for your silence. You know your daughter. She doesn't need your support all the way. Or wandering or living in pursuit of water, you always believe that your child knows how to live. She just needs someone to stand behind her and tell her she's not lonely.
Thank you for not leaving.
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