我和弟弟们放学回家要路经集市广场。那里有爸爸的纪念像;他手握画笔,坐在折叠椅上,面前摆着画架。这像是浇铸的。 每当我们看见他那副模样,总忍不住要笑起来。然而,一旦有外地人问起我们他是谁,我们就神情严肃地说:他不是画家,是我们的爸爸。如果外地人给我们一些钱,我们便会向他讲述有关爸爸的故事。过去爸爸常常以纪念像那种姿势坐在老沙河边上。我和弟弟们在河里游泳,他则画自己的 My brothers and I go home after school to go through the market square. There was a memorial of Daddy; he had his brush in his hand, sitting on a folding chair with an easel in front of him. This is like casting. Whenever we see him look like that, can not help but laugh. However, once a foreigner asks us who he is, we solemnly say: He is not a painter, it is our father. If outsiders give us some money, we tell him about Daddy’s story. In the past my father often commemorate the kind of posture sitting on the edge of the old Shahe. My brothers and I swimming in the river, he painted his own