二十岁的我决定写这祥一封信给六十岁的你,希望它能留下点什么。你好多年没抽烟。当你用放大镜一个字一个字开始看这封信的时候,我猜你会点上一支烟,静静抽。长到20岁了,你的小儿子给别人写过很多信,但从没给你写,也从没跟你好好说过话。有时咱爷俩喝醉了酒,我也只勉强吐出一句,爸你少喝点。我们之间的疏于言表,如同一杯沉默的酒,喝下去轻飘飘火辣辣的,暗涌着许多沉重与婉转,堵在各自心里说不出来。那天你开车送我去车站,火车开往遥远的成都。我坐在车后面一句话不说,把头扭到一边看窗外,头一偏, At the age of twenty, I decided to write this auspicious letter to you sixty and hope it can leave something behind. You have not smoked for many years. When you start reading the letter with the magnifying glass word by word, I guess you will smoke a cigarette, quietly pumping. As long as 20 years old, your youngest son wrote a lot of letters to others, but never wrote to you and never talked to you well. Sometimes my father was drunk, I barely spit out one, dad you drink less. The neglect between us, as a cup of silent wine, drink light floating hot, dark with a lot of heavy and mildly, stuck in their hearts can not tell. That day you drove me to the station, the train bound for distant Chengdu. I sat behind the car did not say a word, twisted his head to the side of the window, head and one side,