Rereading the book of my father

June 18, which is not only Father's Day but also my birthday. I have been thinking about what to do on this special day to commemorate this holiday, and yes, I think I will reread my father's book.

This book used to fascinate me so much, his erudition, was funny and was like opening a world of fairy tales to me. I still remember the stories my father told when I was a child, from Journey to the West to Romance of the Three Kingdoms, from Shanhaijing to Liaozhai. I was curious, were all these stories hidden in my father's possession? I rummaged through my father's clothes, but I couldn't find them.

For hours, my father's book gave me not only these stories but also the thrill of the circus, those motorcycles flying around a large drum, dazzling to watch. And the babble of opera, my favorite or the stage after the smoke screen, a sultry woman on the stage, I later learned that it was Daji. These childhood memories gave birth to my curiosity, which still thrives years later.

I always thought my father, who was a teacher, doted on me, but the book filled me with disappointment when I was assigned to the class my father taught in my first year. I remember shortly after arriving, I felt very good about myself, once, I got into an argument with a female classmate in front of me, and in my anger, I squeezed the table hard to the front, her waist in the narrow gap can not move, face suffocated red, causing the crowd to laugh. When my father arrived in a hurry, I told him it was her fault. Who knew that my father pulled away from the table without saying a word and said sternly, "Get out of here!" I had never seen my father so angry, so I obediently followed him to the office, when my father's blue face eased a little, he said: "At home, your brother gives way to you, now you are classmates, you have to remember me, I am not only your father but also their teacher. You are not allowed to bully others, so you must apologize to your classmates or be transferred to another class." I reluctantly apologized to her amidst the "boo-boos" of my classmates. From that day on, I was so disgusted with the book that I didn't want to read it.

One night, I heard my father say to my mother that the children in high school may be a little far from home, and will be a little hard, finished with a long sigh, the voice full of vicissitudes. I peeked at my father's shadow on the wall, not moving, and I had a strange feeling in my heart.

After I went to high school, I finally left my father and felt unbelievably comfortable without the constraints. One day, I received a large letter and opened it to see my father's handwriting. By the time I received the sample issue, my little high school was a sensation, with my close friends cheering around me, my teacher praising me at the flag-raising assembly, and the county's third-best student that year finally in the bag. I saw my father pretending not to care, but he couldn't hide his smile. Suddenly, I saw that my father's book had a new meaning.

When I was learning to paint, my father took me to the Octagon to buy paints and professional books, which were expensive, and smacked my lips, but he still bought them without hesitation according to my request. Compared to his generosity to me, I remembered that one of my father's sweaters was bought for him by my aunt, and my mother had sewn it several times, and he still couldn't throw it away. My father was very stingy with life, did not smoke, did not drink, his only hobby was to like to buy books to read and sometimes was forced to give them up for things we needed because we were growing up.

There was a time when I was so frustrated that I wanted to give up because I was stagnant in my painting. It so happened that my father and colleagues organized a bicycle tour to Shaolin Temple, and I was the only girl in that group. All the other teachers were too much trouble to be dragged along, either by themselves or by the sons they brought. Only my father and I had been at the end, he accompanied me, encouraged me, climbed up the hill, and finally arrived at the destination. I laughed out loud with joy when I saw the famous scratchy tree. I looked down at so many cars all parked due to traffic and said to my father, "Dad, I thought I couldn't ride it." "Son, you are the best, the bike is slow but eventually moving forward, not giving up is the best effort!" After listening to my father's words, I thought, "Yes, although tired but keep moving forward, painting is not the same.

In a patriarchal environment, my father chose to travel with his youngest daughter. At that moment, I finally discovered my father's thick book, because I found that forgiveness was written between the lines, and every page was written with a father's love like a mountain.

I wonder how my father will feel when he realizes that he has become a book in my eyes.

Now, when I re-examined the book, I saw that it was tainted with a white layer of dust by the years, I could not bear to blow gently, and the dust got into my eyes, sour and hazy.