一座低矮的小木屋,顶上一层灰色的瓦,时光侵蚀了老屋的门,我倚着斑驳的门框,回想着那些逝去的平常小事,感悟那些细微的思想。先前是爷爷喜欢坐在老屋的门口,抽着自卷的旱烟,望着山边泛红的夕阳,独自想着一生经历过的事。每次被烟呛着了,爷爷总会召我去给他捶捶背,跟我讲述那些我好奇的故事。世事经年,老屋的门,依旧吱呀吱呀地摇曳着,终 A low wooden cabin, covered with gray roof tiles, eroded the door of the old house. I leaned against the mottled door frame, reminded me of those subtle little things that had passed away, and realized the subtle thoughts. Previously grandpa likes to sit in the door of the old house, smoking a self-winding dry smoke, looking at the reddened hillside sunset, alone thinking of a lifetime experienced things. Every time I was choked with smoke, my grandfather always called me to hammer him back and tell me the stories I was curious about. After all the years, the door of the old house, still squeak ah swaying, and finally