We toured the small forest that was near your cottage.
Are you tired? "I asked. might be pregnant -answered-but no, I'm used to walking on earth and stones.
thin I told you about what you saw, how well you were the blue rimmed glasses, and those old friends are old and are not our friends. I laughed and I could have cast into the laughter laughter small stitching with that old wound left open once, but this time he was forgotten.
Your Father, are you still painting? and telling war stories "I asked softly.
My Father, yes, still painting, and continues with the story I told you almost fell asleep while -answer me without removing your eyes from the road of earth and stones.
I do not sleep. I remember all the stories, do you count them? -I answer, not to look into your eyes.
smile. No thanks -smiles again. Pretty I have with my Father, "he concluded, laughing and looks. Yes, your eyes. That look. I forget that look full of uncertainties. I remember the last time we look and you told me you wanted to be alone, you did not want me around again. And that view contradicted your words. I repeated over and over again, I would miss, which would pass bad, and not being selfish not tell you Who else that you would miss would be me. And I kept quiet.
I give a box of colors, and inside are all the letters that I wrote and I never let you go. Why did you come to live so far away? "I ask trembling.
And you stay silent. I imagine that your father's illness doctors told you that clean air will do you good. But as you, I'd do some good to you this pure air, this loneliness? . I answer no.
We stopped on the road. You have left the box on a stone and you sat holding my hand tightly and not let go an instant.
When are you going to assimilate his death?. You to accept it, please. She is dead. He died that day. I also imagine it hanging around here, and even smell the almond biscuits cooked and filled the whole house smell. But you have to move on. She is not. He left us, unfortunately, 5 years ago. And you, girl, come back each year to meet her in this old wooden house, but never find. Because unfortunately she is dead.
daughter, takes up this box of letters. She can not read this. And, ever.
not ever come back here. She is not, you have to assimilate it - strikes me at the temples with his fingers. You have to understand: you have to bury that pain. Do not think like Father I do not miss it. The look behind the trees, and when the night seems to listen to for help in the forest. But it is my imagination. Just as your imagination is yours.
Take the train and not return. My daughter is dead and every time you come in search of you die a little and kill me a little.
Are you tired? "I asked. might be pregnant -answered-but no, I'm used to walking on earth and stones.
thin I told you about what you saw, how well you were the blue rimmed glasses, and those old friends are old and are not our friends. I laughed and I could have cast into the laughter laughter small stitching with that old wound left open once, but this time he was forgotten.
Your Father, are you still painting? and telling war stories "I asked softly.
My Father, yes, still painting, and continues with the story I told you almost fell asleep while -answer me without removing your eyes from the road of earth and stones.
I do not sleep. I remember all the stories, do you count them? -I answer, not to look into your eyes.
smile. No thanks -smiles again. Pretty I have with my Father, "he concluded, laughing and looks. Yes, your eyes. That look. I forget that look full of uncertainties. I remember the last time we look and you told me you wanted to be alone, you did not want me around again. And that view contradicted your words. I repeated over and over again, I would miss, which would pass bad, and not being selfish not tell you Who else that you would miss would be me. And I kept quiet.
I give a box of colors, and inside are all the letters that I wrote and I never let you go. Why did you come to live so far away? "I ask trembling.
And you stay silent. I imagine that your father's illness doctors told you that clean air will do you good. But as you, I'd do some good to you this pure air, this loneliness? . I answer no.
We stopped on the road. You have left the box on a stone and you sat holding my hand tightly and not let go an instant.
When are you going to assimilate his death?. You to accept it, please. She is dead. He died that day. I also imagine it hanging around here, and even smell the almond biscuits cooked and filled the whole house smell. But you have to move on. She is not. He left us, unfortunately, 5 years ago. And you, girl, come back each year to meet her in this old wooden house, but never find. Because unfortunately she is dead.
daughter, takes up this box of letters. She can not read this. And, ever.
not ever come back here. She is not, you have to assimilate it - strikes me at the temples with his fingers. You have to understand: you have to bury that pain. Do not think like Father I do not miss it. The look behind the trees, and when the night seems to listen to for help in the forest. But it is my imagination. Just as your imagination is yours.
Take the train and not return. My daughter is dead and every time you come in search of you die a little and kill me a little.
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