"Butterfly - White Radish"

(If you want to leave a message, please go to "Chat")

Is everyone's starting point called "parents"?
Turning around they said to me "Who are you? I never knew you"
It's not that who's orphans are always licking something called a wolf or a worm and it thrives because "I" can't stop imagining I'm lying

The round white radish is cut in half from the middle section, and then a round slice of about 0.15 cm is cut from the section (but not cut), and another slice of radish of the same thickness is cut next to it, and the knife is broken this time. After waiting for the symmetrical lines to be carved out like paper-cuts, you can open a page of butterflies.

The knife was slender and long, like an awl. It was a special knife for fruit carving. Me's father's firm fingers used the knife to draw lines like writing, and the same isolated lines were drawn along the arc near the edge of the slice. , but the more it gets closer to the end, the thinner it becomes, and the tip becomes the antennae of the butterfly. In the same way as the silhouette of a paper-cut butterfly, first cut out the outline and then hollow out the pseudo-eye pattern on the wings. His father's fore and hind wings were shaped like orchid petals. In order to be more fancy, hook-shaped tail wings were extended from the hind wings. Some of the lines were deliberately folded to create the shape of the façade. It was complicated and overlapping, and instantly felt dizzy and blurred. When the white butterfly was on the plate, it crouched beside a Phalaenopsis orchid.

When Me was a child, his father was preparing ingredients, and he was lying on the side of a bucket of equal height playing with water. He has two teams of swimmers on the left and right, slapping the water with his fingers, driving them forward, stirring up water patterns on the lake. The left-handed team can jump like a dolphin and jump out of fancy flips, and it is not a problem to make a few laps; The battle between the two teams is always difficult to determine, but his father has a very different opinion, saying coldly: "It's for people to eat, don't play." This is an incomprehensible statement, Me is still indulging in the excitement of the competition, and continues to stick to the side of the bucket. . After a while, he had a premonition that a large cooking spatula would land in the air, so he ran away before hitting his head. "I don't think it's rare!" Bianran muttered to himself, it's really not rare, children can play everywhere. Such a strict father, in Me's impression, he said, only appeared once.

I learned a new sentence from the teacher in class, and everyone thought it was funny, so Me followed. When I got home and quarreled with my mother, this sentence came in immediately: "I'm sick!" After speaking, I ran upstairs immediately. Not long after, my father came up, his tone was a little hesitant, like someone who knew he had a heart attack deliberately suppressed his anger, and used a low tone that was afraid of hurting people but had to be righteous: "You can't say that to mom." As if Me continued to speak and it would come true. When I was a child, there was a small restaurant on the first floor of my family, and there were disputes between children in games. There was always a cute but cunning villain who would sue first, crying and yelling on purpose. The adults who were already very busy immediately rushed to the second floor. It was never Me's father who whipped the kid into the corner with the clothes hanger.

Under the light, the white butterfly reflects the clear texture of the white radish, and the slender and slender curved tentacles seem to be swaying in the wind. A white butterfly crouches beside a phalaenopsis; the butterfly resembles an orchid, and the orchid resembles a butterfly, imitating each other. The guests' eyes will first bet on the red and purple real orchids, and when they get tired of looking, they will move their eyes to the lifelike fake butterflies. Strictly speaking, the appearance of a butterfly carved from a white radish is not real at all, but this is neither an orchid nor a fictional butterfly, but it can attract people's admiration, perhaps because it can fiction that the original butterfly "doesn't exist". ”, and it appears to be invaluable.

Me's father died in the intensive care unit in his early fifties. After a long time, he suddenly remembered the white butterfly that escaped from his father's heart. He told me that there still seemed to be a faint, bright afterglow from my father's fingertips.

The flapping white butterfly reminded Me of those moments that shook him, and he told me stories of craving and guilt.