I tried, once, to explain what it meant to be alive. I was still a child, then. My father listened intently, putting down his carving knife to rest his hand under his chin. When I was finished, he didn’t say anything. He just picked up his knife, again, and continued on with his work. He was a quiet man, and we never spoke of it. On the rare
(
Read more... )
Comments 1
Truly emotional, and in a very good way.
A great opener, if this is fiction, write the book!
If this is your life, write the book!
Reply
Leave a comment