1967年冬天,我12岁那年,临近春节的一个早晨,母亲苦着脸,心事重重地在屋子里走来走去,时而揭开炕席的一角,掀动几下铺炕的麦草,时而拉开那张老桌子的抽屉,扒拉几下破布头烂线团。母亲叹息着,并不时把目光抬高,瞥一眼那三棵吊在墙上的白菜。最后,母亲的目光锁定在白菜上,端详着,终于下了决心似的,叫着我的乳名,说: In the winter of 1967, one morning at the age of 12, near the Spring Festival, one morning my mother bitter face and walked around in my heart and dug away from the corner of the kang mat. Open that old desk drawer, pull a few rag the first rotten line. Mother sighed and looked up from time to time, glanced at the three cabbages hanging on the wall. Finally, the mother’s eyes locked in the cabbage, looked carefully, and finally determined, like, called my name, said: