Father is old. The gray hair is like a shirt which was originally dark black. After experiencing too much sunshine exposure, the smooth face is also full of ravines and the vicissitudes of life. I, the man who was denounced as a bear child by him, sat against him, with two wisps of smoke hanging around, staring faintly without saying a word. My father worried about building three houses and always boasted from this, my father retired one year in advance, and caught up with the last batch of resettlement, which became a boastful capital. Half a cup of turbid wine drinkled the veins on the forehead. It seems that the blood flowing back to the youth is more forgetful. But my father is indeed old, with my mother. They no longer have the energy to quarrel but to support each other. We became our father again, but we were no longer irritable and confident blindly. Because my father is really setting an example for us now

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