Garmented eggs

On the day of Chongqing, when I went back to my home to sweep the grave, the men went to the mountains to work, and when I walked through a small village with my children in a tiny spring wind, while they found a lot of dark wooden ears on the ground, I remembered years ago, watching the elders pick up their coats on the beach, and we used to skating towers, sliding and burning soup, but I never picked it up, and two people talked about it for a while, and I pulled out a plastic bag and listened to birds, smelled flowers and picked it up patiently. The aunts in the roadside house were eager to help us find it, tell us how to eat it, how to wash it, how to wash it, how much to wear (some before I understood it, I knew it when I washed it, alas) and help us to understand that a few cars of sand had been pulled from the river to pave the way, and that was what had happened in the rain. She had already eaten several times, a larger one, a lower temperature, listening to her whispers, a quiet heart, and picked up a lot without knowing it。