What is home? It is a sail struggling in the storm and a long-awaited haven; It is a wanderer in a foreign land, and a full moon hangs high in the sky; Or the ancient battlefield, bloody soldiers, holding flags and waving whips, went straight to their long-awaited "paradise"?

Since ancient times, our family has entrusted us with too many emotions. Speaking of home, that kind of warmth and warmth, that kind of sense of belonging and security, arises spontaneously! In my pen, home is always the same color, and those frozen memories will linger no matter when and where.

In fact, home gives me the most primitive feeling, just like a giant umbrella, which holds up a blue sky for me. But under the giant umbrella, the sweat fountain of struggle, the blood rain of sacrifice, the flying white hair, the vicissitudes of life, the wrinkles on the face and the rickety back are still vivid.

mother

My mother always thought that she was so sacred-as tough as a pine tree, as unyielding as a plum blossom, as broad as the earth, as selfless as a silkworm, as warm as the sun, and she was transformed by me. I really don't know whether my mother is the reason for my existence, or because of my existence, I can make her unreal, just like in The Duke of Zhou's Dream Butterfly, if Xu is real, if Xu is real.

This is my most primitive feeling about my mother, such as clear spring water flowing slowly through a mountain stream and clouds floating quietly in the sky without any impurities. So in real life, after rational thinking, what kind of mother will I write?

Speaking of my mother, I can't help falling into the dusk of my childhood memories, but if I think about it carefully, I just feel like some fragmentary puzzles, incomplete.

I only remember that when I was a child, my mother worked in an ink factory for six yuan a day, not to mention going out early and coming home late every day. Every day after school, I will go to the factory not very close to the school to help with odd jobs. The color inside the factory always seems to be the same gray, and even the uneven ground smells of ink from time to time. Looking back now, it seems to be the taste of childhood. The timidity of entering the factory, the joy of going home, and the seemingly passing wild flowers are all open to me. Accompanying my mother is the playground of my childhood and the paradise in my memory.

Childhood is drifting away, and it seems to be a precocious teenager. When I was in junior high school, my home was far from school and I went home almost once a week. Recalling that I have walked for four years, wildflowers, fish, broken bridges, streams and sunset are still clearly visible. Every time I go home, from a distance, I will see a hazy shadow standing in front of my house, watching from a distance. Sunset and the afterglow of sunset guide the road and extend to the distance ... warm pictures, such as beautiful silhouettes, will always be fixed in my heart.

In that sealed memory, my mother will always be so young and beautiful, just like the evergreen tree in front of the door, and will never be old. I remember the last time I went home, I haven't seen you for half a year. Wrinkles covered her chapped skin. The once beautiful Scud is now like a shrinking weed. Is it because I have neglected it, or "time makes people old"? I don't know anymore.

father

Speaking of my father, my heart seems a little heavy. I always feel that he is not beautiful in speech and clumsy in doing things. In front of me and my brother, he always likes to "talk loudly" and move out a lot of "philosophy of life", which is endless. If you add the word "serious" to him, you can better describe him. In short, I always feel depressed when I get along with him.

I remember the fifth grade in primary school. On that day, heavy snow and falling snowflakes wrapped the earth tightly, and the cold wind blew wantonly in this big ice room. Accompanied by a few friends, I got back my report card with poor grades. My mother didn't say anything but encouraged me, but I still looked blank. My father is not so accommodating. He took the report card I handed him and looked serious. I just hung my head and didn't dare to look him in the face. His anger, like lava from a volcano, suddenly erupted. First he crumpled up his report card and threw it at me, then he gave me a scolding. Maybe I didn't respond, and my angry eyes grew longer and longer, so he pulled out the belt tied to his body and whipped it. I cried and got under the table, huddled up, my mother was pulling my father hard, and the cold wind was still blowing outside. ...

In my memory, this time my father hit me the hardest. Although he hasn't hit me since junior high school, that kind of fear lingers in my heart and makes me instinctively reject him in my usual life. Looking back now, I just feel that I didn't fully understand him.

Remember six months ago, I accompanied you to Wuhan for car inspection. You said it was expensive to stay in a hotel and you were afraid that your car would be stolen, so we were going to sleep on the street for one night. It's getting dark and the street lamp is on. I want to go to the internet cafe all night. You may be worried about my safety. After thinking for a long time, you finally agreed to my request. But the next morning, I didn't show up on time. You go to the internet cafe on the street and go door to door. I was anxious for half an hour and suddenly appeared in front of you. I saw you angry at me and talking about something. When you rushed in front of me, you suddenly took off your hat and threw it on the ground. You were going to hit me with your hand, but you controlled it and scolded me. I was stunned by this sudden scene, and everything was spinning. ...

"An adult like me, maybe I will lose it. Is it worth it? " When I got home, I thought.

Later, in a TV series, I occasionally saw such a group of pictures: a girl came home late at night, and her father looked for her for a long time and almost called the police. When the girl suddenly appeared in front of him, what I didn't expect was that her father slapped her hard, and then they hugged each other and cried. I was stunned by this picture. Looking back now, I only feel that I was too smart.

younger brother

Speaking of my younger brother, my mind is full of childhood memories. Catch lobsters in rice fields and catch the sunset on the western hills in the scorching sun; Together in the mud, played a mud battle; Design traps together to bully the little A next door; Catch fish together in the water until your hands and feet are white; Chasing the sunset in the field together until you are tired and tired, lying on the ridge of the field, let the warm spring breeze blow your childish face ... but occasionally you will blush and have a thick neck because of a candy, and you will once fight for your "private property". But for the unspeakable feelings of childhood, such as a meaningful and rhyming picture, I have endless aftertaste.

Flying memories, lost childhood, and those yellowed photos all have our shadow. The beauty of childhood, because you and I exist together.

label

Now, I have been studying in other places, and I usually gather less and leave more. Even in winter and summer vacations, it may be difficult to go back. I wonder if my dog has grown up. I remember when it first appeared, it was still a very small one. I wonder if the saplings in front of the door have grown taller. I went home last time and planted them with my mother. I don't know how many small fruits the peach tree has produced this year, but I am sure that my father is greedy again. I don't know if my ailing grandmother is in good health now, but last time my brother told me that she was sent to the hospital in the town again. I don't know, my mother's hair has been dyed white by years; I don't know if my father still eats porridge for three meals because of stomach trouble; I don't know ...

I love my family!

//Give you a 2000-word one. I wrote it myself. Give it to me ~ ~