Father is ill, you ask him something, answer a sentence and repeat it many times. Walking becomes slower, and sometimes, if you are not careful, you will fall. I accompanied him to the hospital and lived in the Cardiovascular and Cerebrovascular Department on the 15th floor of the inpatient department.

The doctor asked him what he had for breakfast in the morning and how many children he had. Sometimes he did it right, and sometimes he did it wrong. The doctor asked, when is your daughter's birthday? He doesn't remember. He looked at me and asked me for help like a helpless child. The doctor shook his head at me and didn't want me to answer for him. He smiled bitterly and looked helpless. I walked out of the ward and couldn't help crying.

My father graduated from college in the 1960s, majoring in architectural design. Where is the father who bent down in the middle of the night to design the drawings, the father who helped me with my advanced math, and the father who walked like a fly? Ruthless time took my young father away.

In the afternoon, in the corridor of the hospital, I helped my father practice walking. Walk slowly step by step. I hold my father's hand. His hands are soft and warm, and there are several age spots on the back of his hand. I walked with him and comforted him. The doctor says your symptoms are the lightest. You should take good exercise, and you will recover. Father nodded, like a young child, attached to me and believed me.

Holding my father's warm hand, I suddenly remembered that winter when I was a child, a rare heavy snow fell in my hometown of Bailuyuan. On a cold winter night, my father was going to pick up my mother from a school in a neighboring village. He hurried out in a black wool coat. I jumped out of the door with my father.

I saw that the snow had stopped long ago and it was not dark. Walking in the endless fields, the air after snow is fresh and clear as a spring. My father walked in big strides, and I wore a small cotton-padded jacket and followed in his footsteps with small steps. My little hand is in my father's warm and powerful big hand, and my father asks me, is it cold? I touched my red nose and looked up and said, it's not cold.

Dad lifted his coat and let me put it on. It's warm in the coat, and my head only reaches my father's waist. Even if I hide in my coat and can't see the way, I'm not afraid to have my father holding me.

On the snow, a string of big footprints accompanied by a string of small footprints creaked step by step in the snow. In a trance, I was still a four-year-old girl, and my father was still my sky, a mountain, a tree and my forever attached home.

But in a flash, my father was old. The sideburns are full, and the snow of the years is full. I remember the writer Zhu Tianwen said that my father's white hair is not old. Tears fell down when I read that sentence.

We stood at the window on the fifteenth floor of the hospital and looked out. He said that decades ago, when I came to the small town on the bank of the Han River, it was still a wasteland, and now there are high-rise buildings everywhere.

My father is like a tired bird in the dusk, lying on a tall building, recalling the past, recalling the past, remembering his black hair, flying gait, and full of youth-his eyes are full of endless sadness.

Who says the price of longevity is vicissitudes? Human feelings, such as fleeting time, are icing on the cake. Isn't it? Neither you nor I have time to wait. Love your parents. Because at the intersection of two generations' lives, time is only a small step.

I remember a scene depicted in a cartoon: when we were young, our parents put on our shoes, dressed us, fed us patiently, took us to the park to play, looked at our little running figure and smiled.

Finally, one day, when they are old and clumsy, it's time for us to dress and put on shoes for them and take them to the park-I want to have a smile on my face like they did when they were young, because I am happy to have parents with frosty temples and relatives around.

My past and future are written by my parents all their lives. I want them to know that I love them in their gray-haired twilight years.