This is a pair of rough hands, but it is such a hand that gave me a happy life. These hands are father's. In my memory, I rarely noticed my father's hand, really looked at my father's hand carefully, or when I was eating. That day my mother made my favorite Mapo tofu, my father took chopsticks and picked vegetables. I saw that my father's nails were covered with black oil and the black lines on the fingerprints were clearly visible. There was a blood-red wound on the index finger Marlboro Gold, and a few drops of blood leaked from time to time. I suddenly lost my appetite, but I still took the chopsticks and asked him to wash his hands. I went back to my room and took a band-aid. On the wound of the father. But when I got back to the table, I clearly saw that my father��s hand was still the same. I couldn't help but say casually: "Why can such a big person not even wash his hands?" The father was silent Marlboro Lights. Going home in the evening, my mother came to my room and said to me: "You are too much at noon, do you know?" I explained: "I am also good for him. What if he is sick?" Said; "Your father's hand is not clean, he deals with cars and oil every day, and his hands are greasy with oil. In fact, he has to wash his hands with hand soap every time he washes his hands, but it is useless. "After listening to my mother's words Cigarettes Online, my nose was sour. I felt that I was too much at noon. I ran to my father's room and grabbed my father's hand. My father hurriedly pulled his hand back and said: "dirty, dirty." His face The expression on the face is very uncomfortable. I took a look at my father's hand and saw what kind of hands it was! There are more than a dozen mouths on the hand, some are still bleeding, and some have already been smashed, and even the palm of the hand is like a gully when the loess is dry. My tears couldn't help but flow down and drip in my father's hand. My father's hand twitched consciously, and his mouth kept making a "squeaky" sound. I looked up at my father's face and asked distressedly, "Dad, hurt?" He shook his head and said, "Nothing, no pain." As he said, he turned his face back. I held the black hands in my hand and gently stroked each wound. I knew that every wound contained my father's love for me. I blame myself: How can I dislike my father, how can I say such a thing to hurt a person who loves me? At that moment, I silently told myself that I must study hard and be a father in the future. Create a superior living environment, so that his hands are not oily, no more wounds!
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