Christmas memories (Published three years ago, curated for the benefit of the community)
My father is so patient and kind that he would get angry one day a year; But the earth will not be satisfied with a day of wrath, I heard the mediators interfering with his blood, praising him and saying, “No one can help.”
When I was in ninth grade, Christmas Eve; When Gash Fanuel returned home a couple of times, they were shocked. His blood flowed from the Nile, which he found to be a tribute to his nephew. It is better to say that he did not eat the fly, as if he were trying to drive it away. My father’s palm: The sound of Gash Fanuel, who had been trapped in a fenced land, sounded like a thunderbolt. If Gash Fanuel rotates a little on its axis; The American tree fell like a storm after the wind; Oh no! He is a lion!
As soon as our father returned home, As soon as he beat Gash Fanuel in the face, he announced to my mother that he had taken off his coat and hung it next to the wedding photo, then he sat down with a sigh of relief. Our mother and our children, thinking of the next blow; We began to tremble; It wasn’t long before we heard the roof of our house ring. It was not Anderby who threw a lightning bolt or a notebook. The missile fired by Gash Fanuel’s teenage son is a disgraceful stone.
“I love this,” he said. immediately; My mother was trying to stop him when he went to the door with the plummet on his head. He pushed her out.
My mother was terrified when she saw the father of her children in danger. She is proud of her bravery. As she rolled her eyes in pride and fear, she saw me standing in the corner, hesitant. She showed me the sign, “Follow your father.” Oh my gosh! I wish I had not been created! Even if I was created, I wish I could go to the countryside and spend the night at the request of my Christian father! ; Hold my heart in my heart; Brave, I tried to look like my father’s shield; When I slowly gather my sleeves, I do not seem to be preparing for the fight, but for the vaccine. I picked it up and followed my father, hesitant, because I found a stick stuck in my hand on the porch. To the one observing me: I do not look like a shield, but a singer who follows his master; The handle itself is like a scythe.
As soon as my father reached the wall of the dungeon, He stopped and began to pound the tin door. As for the calmness of his face, It sounds like a bell ringing in a rural church.
The stone that Gash Fanuel’s little ones threw out of the yard soon fell on my father, I heard it from behind, as I was choosing a way to retreat; I turned around in slow motion; I remember dreaming when Gash Fanuel’s teenage son was emerging from the darkness. I’m still not sure if he hit me with a stick or with a Sinotrac.
The next day: Christmas Frieda The fathers and mothers of our neighborhood are destroying their world; As for me, my face is as old as silver, Wounded in every corner; Healing a broken jar; Hang my basket basket; Ashagre Sshof, my father and Gash Fanuel; I saw them laughing and eating raw meat;