这段记忆,那么遥远,却又那么真实。那个下午,结束了半天的绘画课,夕阳斜斜地照进画室,照在一墙彩色的画上,柔柔的,暖暖的,越来越淡……画室空空的,除了我,再没别的人。陪着我的,是满墙的作品和冰冷的石膏像。时间一分一秒地流逝着,却一直没人来接我。“爸爸怎么还没来?难道他忘记了?那我怎么办?”害怕、委屈、惶恐……泪水不禁涌了上来。 This memory, so far, but so real. That afternoon, the end of a long painting class, the setting sun shone into the studio, according to a wall of colored paintings, soft, warm, more and more light ... ... empty studio, in addition to me, no other people. Accompany me is full of wall works and cold plaster. Time flies, but no one has come to pick me up. “Why did not my father come? Did he forget? Then I how to do? ” Fear, grievance, fear ... tears can not help but poured up.