Mother always picks up the soles late at night. The clicking sound of the old sewing machine through the screen window, and the rustle of the locust tree at the mouth of the alley, woven into a soft net in the summer night of my childhood. I always thought she was too slow. There were all kinds of sneakers in the shop. Until many years later in a foreign country in the depths of the wardrobe turned out a pair of thousand layers of bottom, finger pulp stroked fine as fish scales of stitches, only to realize those crisscross lines, The original is the mother with years on the warp and weft. My father's silence was the deepest puzzle of my youth. He never says " be careful, " but when I slam the door, Silently put the peeled apple in the corner of the desk; will not comment on my grades after the parents meeting, but will get up at 5 am in the winter, Remove the frozen bicycle chain and wipe away the rust with kerosene. On his 20th birthday, he clumsily took out a cloth bag containing the camera he had saved half a year's salary to buy. " I hear you like to take pictures, " he smiled, scratching the back of his head. Grandma's kitchen is always sweet. She always remember I love to eat osmanthus cake to steamed to medium-well, remember I am afraid of hot, every time the bottom of the bowl in cold water three times. After the stroke, she couldn't move half of her body, but she insisted on sitting in her wheelchair and directing me to make pumpkin pie. " Sugar to put a spoonful ", " Fire can not be too hot ", garrulous voice, I suddenly see her silver hair, How many early mornings for me. Those details diluted by the years, the original have become the most mellow memory of the honey. I took my mother for a checkup in late autumn last year, and the electronic screen in the hallway scrolled with health tips. She suddenly took my hand, and the rough palms made my fingertips tremble - hands that had tied my shoelaces countless times, and carried me through puddles on stormy days. Now even clenching seems difficult. " I'm afraid I won't be able to walk far with you, " she whispered, looking out of the window at the falling ginkgo leaves. I squatted down to help her tidy up the scarf blown by the wind, suddenly found his shoulder, has long been able to hold up a clear sky for her. Grandpa's toolbox contains the code of time. The fifty-year-old saw still had sawdust from making my horse on its blade, and a rusty tape measure had been used to measure my height from small to large. The day he died, I found a tin box at the bottom of my toolbox, neatly stacked with my first baby tooth, my grade school certificate, There are even junior high school pens that write bad. The original those we readily discarded moments, there are always people carefully treasure. Family is never a vigorous declaration, but into the bone and blood of the tacit understanding. Is the mother peeled pomegranate seeds into a hill, is the father quietly put the cold medicine into fruit-flavored granules, is the grandmother of the moon cakes in the egg yolk are dug to me, It was the faint cough in the background when Grandpa said " everything's fine " on the phone. These moments, such as stars, have been connected into the Milky Way for a long time, illuminating our life together. Now I'm learning what to do for my family. Hold the porcelain basin while her mother kneads the dough, hand her the right screwdriver while her father repairs electrical appliances, and teach Grandma to pronounce on her smartphone in the video. The original heritage is never a deliberate imitation, but when we stand in the position of our parents, Suddenly understand those unspoken gentle - like the moonlight will always fall on the windowsill, like a needle and thread will always find its place. As dusk filled the kitchen, I looked at the ribs soup rolling in the pot, and suddenly remembered myself lying on the hearth as a child. At that time always anxious to open the lid, now understand that the best taste need to boil slowly. Like the family this bowl of soup, after years of slow stew, after countless times add wood and fire, in order to boil out the most long back to sweet.