When I was a child, I carried my small schoolbag home from the village, and as soon as I got to the village, I could see the branches of the old camphor trees on the front of my house. The smoke was pulling at the edge of the field, waiting for me to go home apartment central hk. The clever yellow dog smelled my breath coming towards me. Then I confidently told myself that it was my mother who had started cooking dinner. For many years, has been staring at the smoke grew up, I firmly believe that home smoke over the roof, have the taste of delicious food, is the call of the mother, while the warmth with childhood, youth, is a young and middle-aged. I often watched the smoke from the trance, smoke filled with spiritual, for a while in the sky of the tile roof, then ran to the house that a bamboo forest, then to shake hands with sunrise and the sunset another goodbye... She was always so gracious that she gently caressed all the spirits above the earth, and she embraced them with great love, always with a sweet taste, and she was tireless. In my eyes, she is a wonderful scenery, because of her, constantly warm herself. When she was younger, I used to take a head of cattle to the house of the high mountain, the cattle with relish to eat grass, I was lying on the grass looking up at the blue sky white clouds, how thick clouds look like cotton sample from rush is in a hurry, also change myriad Master of Architecture hong kong, draw the picture in the blue sky. Always when I fascinated the few wisp of smoke from the chimney at the foot of the mountain, like a flowing scenery along the direction of the wind swing dancing to her heavy full figure, and toward the east, west, she ran continually changing direction, between the trees, in the creek, in the zhuang 榢 fields, in the front room... If you play with a child like a child, you will not be tired. I knew mother was cooking, and the smoke told me that my mother told me to go home soon. The bull seemed to be lustful for the green grass, the heart unwilling to be unwilling to be unwilling to be willing to give me a swing of a swing on the sheep's path back home to shake the brass bell. When the smoke heard the ring, I knew I was going home, so I hid in the mountain pass and never showed up again. I knew that mother had already cooked the food. I could smell the Onions, smell the rice, and smell the warmth of my mother. The cow could smell it, so he let go and walked home. The smoke, the call of the mother, is the memory of the heart. Later, in order to make a living, go south and go north, the smoke from the smoke is farther and farther away from me, far enough to remain in the memory. Every time when we are alone, eyes always shaking the shadow of the smoke Hong Kong serviced apartments, the homesickness heavily hugged, she gently wipe the tears in my eyes for me and tell me, where she is home and have her call is the most happiness thing under the sun. One year a year, the smoke of the dream told me: why the mother's hair, such as the afterwinter, the white grass, hunting and hunting in the wind of the years; Why the longer the mother, the shorter, the dwarf has to use crutches to support the body; Why the mother's face is full of gully wrinkles, why the hands are full of callus, why once the hard body no longer strong. My mother always lit a scent of smoke in the increasingly dilapidated kitchen to slow me down. All the news about my hometown, it is the news that the smoke of cooking smoke in my mother's thousand-layer cloth shoes to climb mountains and water is not far away from me. No matter how far I go, I can always see the smoke from the sky above my hometown, which is the affectionate call of my mother. Come back, come back, the wandering wanderer...
