翻开床底泛黄的照片,拆迁的老家只剩一片荒芜。照片的某个角落,几乎快被记忆搁浅的那一隅,我看见了那只小木舟,就如干旱狰狞的土地被淋在雨中一样,我仿佛又坐回了那叶木舟里。那是一叶沧桑的渔船,船缝里塞了棉花,船底生了水草。人一上船,船就会下沉,漏水,水草和棉花交替浮动。老家河两岸的住户中都鲜有这样的船。每每爷爷要撑船出行时,我总要满足一 Turn yellow photos of the bed, leaving only a deserted home. In one corner of the photo, the one that was nearly stranded by memory, I saw the small wooden boat. Just like the drought-plagued land was showered in the rain, I seemed to sit back in the boat. It was a fishing boat with vicissitudes of life. There were cotton in the ship’s seams and aquatic plants. As soon as one gets on the boat, the boat sinks, leaks, and alternates between plants and cotton. Few of the households on both sides of the Laojia River have such boats. Every time Grandpa wants to make a boat trip, I always have to meet one