Every day, when I send domestic garbage to the garbage collection point downstairs, I will always see some elderly people, hunched over their backs in the garbage cans to pick up cardboard boxes, beer cans and other waste products, and always feel uncomfortable, and my wife will always take the initiative to clean out the cardboard boxes and give them to them.
Yesterday afternoon, when I went downstairs, at the door of the stairs, I saw an old man nibbling on steamed buns in a snakeskin bag, drinking cold water in a crumpled drink bottle, and a rickshaw parked next to him, the car was full of worn-out electrical appliances and clothes.
I suddenly thought of my deceased parents, and I remember that when I was very young, I hated winter. Because my father's hands are always cracked in winter, and my mother's hands are always frostbitten, I feel very painful when I look at them, but they never cry out in pain, and I always see my mother and my father smearing unknown potions, all of which are herbs dug up from the mountains near the village, and sometimes my father's body will be bruised and purple, and my mother will always cry in pain. I think that if it weren't for the compulsion of life, these uncles and aunts would not be able to survive in the garbage heap and hope in the items discarded by others. With so many high-rise buildings, so many well-dressed people, so many families with no worries about food and clothing, how many people care about the elderly who want to live like this.
I don't understand why, I think everyone has their own life, their own life, but can we pay more attention to these elderly people if we can.