Pukou railway station, the figure left by his father.

I am ashamed to say that as a Pukou native, I have recited Zhu Ziqing's famous works, but I have never set foot in pukou railway station for thirty years. Outside, my official excuse is: alas, I am too busy to leave! Inside, I heard my own voice: for fear of seeing failure and withering. But isn't this the thought-provoking background left by the times to the world?

So, on a sunny afternoon, I drove to pukou railway station from the "distant" North Village with my camera on my back. The warm sun in winter shines obliquely on the tall buttonwood, and the branches and leaves sway in the breeze, leaving a mottled and clever tree shadow. Clothes were drying outside several shabby old houses, the creaking wooden door of a messy junk shop was half open, and several elderly people leaned against the door and chatted silently in the cracked sunshine.

Walking in the sun at two or three o'clock in the afternoon, I asked all the way to find pukou railway station. Four stone pillars surround the iconic spherical building and stand alone against the lush trees. After the ball is damaged, it is repaired with cement, and the new and old cement form an obvious boundary. The rough stone pillars around me felt a little vicissitudes of life because of the wind and sun, which instantly brought me into old China and made me sad.

Zhu Ziqing was only twenty years old when he wrote The Back, and his family came down. In pukou railway station, he watched his father's back climb up and down from the platform step by step, and tears inadvertently flowed down twice.

I thought of my father. I took the train with my father for the first time and went to Zhenjiang's brother-in-law's house. The crowded carriage is mixed with the choking smell of red plum smoke and the sour smell of picking feet. I hid in my father's arms and peeked at the fireworks in the carriage. My big curious eyes are going round and round, and I'm afraid of being found squinting and pretending to sleep. More than an hour's drive, looking at all kinds of strangers in the carriage, I feel that I have experienced all kinds of ups and downs in the world. I have never been out of the house before. I was eight years old that year.

In the following years, I never took the train again. The second time I took the train was from Nanjing to Yangzhou to go to college. My father insisted on taking me to the railway station, but I said it several times to no avail, so I had to give up. I dragged my luggage with my bag, crowded the bus with my father, and then transferred to the bus. My father is inconvenient to move, and he is afraid of holding me back. He walked like a step on crutches and stumbled several times and fell down. I quickly stepped forward to help and said positively, "Dad, slow down, I'm not in a hurry." Father smiled brightly and said nothing. His left hand grasped the crutch and sweat dripped from it. I deliberately slowed down and watched my father's lonely figure walk slowly and firmly in the crowded railway station, and his eyes were wet. I was twenty years old that year.

I grow up day by day, and my father grows old day by day. Now I have been wandering outside for many years, and I have returned to my hometown to work, leaving behind leaves and being with my father. Life at two o'clock and one line every day is simple and satisfying. On weekends, I occasionally walk with my father and talk about interesting things when I was a child. My father's eyebrows are kinder and his words are more humorous, which makes me feel gratified.

The sunshine is warm and the memories spread. I was walking in sunny pukou railway station, holding up my camera to take pictures. The doors and windows of the dilapidated building are closed, and I only walk, watch and think in the corridor outside the window. Imagine the noise, buzz, hawking, gongs and drums, and the shouts, cheers and cries in the street, which mixed into the railway station from all directions and drifted away with the whistling whistle.

When I left, I heard from a local old man that this place will be demolished soon, and many people in the neighborhood have moved away, leaving only broken empty shells, which is no longer the prosperity of the year. Say that finish, the old man sighed, no words.

I looked back at the spherical building outside the station and the characters "Nanjing North Station" not far away. I thought of the first time my father watched me leave home alone at the railway station many years ago. I stood at the railway station, looking at my father's lonely and stubborn back. I don't feel my eyes moist.

It was getting late, so I got on the return bus and thought of my father. Is my father standing in front of my house with the light on, waiting for me to go home?