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I walked to father’s side as quickly as we had turned off the television and run downstairs like scared mice each time father returned from farming, when we were young and being lazy. Indeed, the dull light in his glaring eyes sharpened once I placed the lunchbox on the desk before him. He criticized sharply, “Why does it take you half a day to bring my food while a minute for others?”
I didn’t dare to trigger his anger. Holding a deep breath, I was quick to walk out of his sight. Leaning against the wall beside the window while waiting for mother patiently, I quietly listened to the hungry sound of his chewing, swallowing and sucking the porridge. Sometime later, through a corner of the window, I couldn’t help stealing a glance at father, whose lowered head was buried in the lunchbox. To my astonishment, it wasn’t his whitening hair, or his wrinkled face, or his bloodless skin that immediately hooked my eyes and hollowed my heart. It was his fi ngers and fi ngernails.