铅笔

I don't know why mom was taking soDad, said the boy as his father attended to his work.
Yes.?
Why did mom have to go away?
The artist was caught off balance and felt tears well up in his eyes.His wife had been full of color and light and a texture like no other.He missed her deeply and the grief of her passing still resonated strongly despite the passing of months.
Composing himself, he framed an answer as best he could searching the studio for inspiration.
Well, son. I guess we are like, um, like this. He reached across the bench and opened an old inlaid wooden box. It had belonged to his own father and contained an assortment of sketching pencils. Selecting a new pencil, he took a blade and began to whittle away. Small slices of wood and lead fact of against razor sharp blade.
First, this pencil has to be sharpened.He said.It's no use in the safety of the box.
The boy watched Impatiently. He was almost at that point where a child begins to become a man and he had been devastated by the loss of his mother. He was 11 and He was an only child. It was lonely now especially when his father spent a long hours in the studio.
Then continued the artist. After the pencil had been cut, we can draw like this.
He clipped a sheet of paper onto his easel and his hand moved quickly and confidently. Within moments, both of them could recognize the woman's face that stared back and somehow beyond them. With several more experts jokes it was finished just an outline really, but deep we shared meaning.
To the boy she looked peaceful and a little wistful.
The honest sharpened it a little more and add some shading to the face he had known so well. He had cursed her checks a thousand times before, but never with more Deliberation than he did now. She was so close.
But dad, the boy replied Earnestly. What good is it to the pencil if it gets all used up?
The artist paused. Although he had LED his son to this question, he hoped the answer would be understood. As far as answers went it would not halt his son's sorrow, however, he hoped it might bring strength, perhaps some of her strength.
It is true, he replied. Soon this pencil will be just a stub, but look, look what we have made. It's beautiful, it's not being used up just transformed. And when I finished and the lines can't be seen anymore, it will still be the inspiration behind my painting. Do you understand?
I think so the boy's eyes were fixed on the portrait.He remembered her last words to him. Be brave, she had said, I will always love you , always.
Good, said the father as he ruffled the boy's Blond hair.
He could see his wife in him and although it hurt it made him proud too. Her lines were scattered into the boy's face, her words and love a part of his canvas. He was a masterpiece suddenly the artist realized that in his grief he had been neglecting his son, neglecting her.
Son, we are all like a pencil really even you will be a stop 1 day, but it is your choice what you live behind.
You ………
写不下了……