In the emergency room
must be said
www.nosquedavivir.blogspot.com
not remove me from hearing the terrible noise and warp of the table that my dad drove for days to the emergency room. After testing the uncertainty left by the failure to be served in one and another clinic, I took with indifference destination. Maybe they die! "I thought. The little men of the ambulance I looked with some contempt. In those moments it seemed to Meursault, the hero of the novel by Albert Camus "The Stranger" but I received no telegram that read: "Your mother is dead. Funeral tomorrow. " My dad was alive. Before me, and looked around like embarrassed by what I was doing. He knows, better than you, that's how I see him hurt. He covered his face with little hose that gave the oxygen that your lungs will no longer provide. His cough sounded like an empty jar. And I'm not used to look at her eyes rolled with fever.
I stepped out of bed in the room and went into the corridor. I do not want to die! If those plastic spider weaving stop breathing and not more? It is not easy to accept. I love him so much! Since childhood I have loved. Sometimes I think he does not know how. He taught me solidarity. Terms of Endearment. The ability to be fair. He taught me that in the world is like a sharp round and round in one pedal. Suddenly my mom jealous but do not understand my love for her is more than human. I love a thousand, like as a child.
I did not pray. I wanted to stay there, seeing the picture of my mom and my sister. What think it now that they are not together. I'm sure it evokes smiles and funny. Without resentment about what happened between them, which actually happened between five of us. Took an early age. Smoked at a young age. It was good long before birth. Perhaps for that simple reason my mom loved and followed by its windmills, as the man who was coughing from within is a true quixotic. It is not an ordinary man, but the press does not talk about it. But is the news in the papers center parks, street corners, cafes. Even the prostitutes with their mouths and a thousand thousand bodies they want. And not because it pays well. They want him because he has heard, because he has observed. I learned that camping also known parallel worlds and despised. The places that the petty bourgeois scary, yes, only when they are with their wives, because the slightest slip and pay for the sins they pay for sin. Then came
Fabian and Daniela, my two brothers. Went to see him. I went from time to time and the doctor sniffed my despair. I called and went to his office. We talked about it and us. Concluded that family breakdown has led to these labyrinths. I think not even true. I reviewed if there was guilty, my brother wants it, my sister loves it. My mother forgave him long ago. And I just write that is a good man. In all, the least I'm interested in it. But who else knows me.
Next day I wrote this text. They visited him instead. While I was looking for a more creative title than this, Fabian should be sacándole smiles and inflating the lungs again without realizing it. But someone has to throw in the trash or washing dishes, and I delight soap up with this proclamation. My Aunt Gloria came later. It was not the "monkey" who from his youth feel about my dad a fine appreciation. But their arrival did not give me confidence because when it reaches many people is synonymous with dismissal. Once my mother suffered a stroke which to date do not understand. As Aznavour (French singer) The scene was grim. He was stuck on cold cheeks Asunción Silva. But I feel that God has been on our side all the time. Finally recovered. Is back radiating happiness. In the neighborhood enjoys the affection of everyone, even of those who paid the rent and how long it takes, I hit all day.
write this because I have to be afraid of it when I'm gone. I will not repeat the story of Hector Abad. However I think we will forget, but one point in memory that looks like the beam of Miguel Hernandez, and never stops. I see in the history of my pretty Jenniffer an elegy that gives vitality to want me. Life is a candle and suddenly the time consumed, or the wind off the war to force. Or someone not wanting the tomb. Or someone painlessly takes her to another place to light up other nights.
My parents have to die someday, and then, I would have told me in advance.
www.nosquedavivir.blogspot.com
not remove me from hearing the terrible noise and warp of the table that my dad drove for days to the emergency room. After testing the uncertainty left by the failure to be served in one and another clinic, I took with indifference destination. Maybe they die! "I thought. The little men of the ambulance I looked with some contempt. In those moments it seemed to Meursault, the hero of the novel by Albert Camus "The Stranger" but I received no telegram that read: "Your mother is dead. Funeral tomorrow. " My dad was alive. Before me, and looked around like embarrassed by what I was doing. He knows, better than you, that's how I see him hurt. He covered his face with little hose that gave the oxygen that your lungs will no longer provide. His cough sounded like an empty jar. And I'm not used to look at her eyes rolled with fever.
I stepped out of bed in the room and went into the corridor. I do not want to die! If those plastic spider weaving stop breathing and not more? It is not easy to accept. I love him so much! Since childhood I have loved. Sometimes I think he does not know how. He taught me solidarity. Terms of Endearment. The ability to be fair. He taught me that in the world is like a sharp round and round in one pedal. Suddenly my mom jealous but do not understand my love for her is more than human. I love a thousand, like as a child.
I did not pray. I wanted to stay there, seeing the picture of my mom and my sister. What think it now that they are not together. I'm sure it evokes smiles and funny. Without resentment about what happened between them, which actually happened between five of us. Took an early age. Smoked at a young age. It was good long before birth. Perhaps for that simple reason my mom loved and followed by its windmills, as the man who was coughing from within is a true quixotic. It is not an ordinary man, but the press does not talk about it. But is the news in the papers center parks, street corners, cafes. Even the prostitutes with their mouths and a thousand thousand bodies they want. And not because it pays well. They want him because he has heard, because he has observed. I learned that camping also known parallel worlds and despised. The places that the petty bourgeois scary, yes, only when they are with their wives, because the slightest slip and pay for the sins they pay for sin. Then came
Fabian and Daniela, my two brothers. Went to see him. I went from time to time and the doctor sniffed my despair. I called and went to his office. We talked about it and us. Concluded that family breakdown has led to these labyrinths. I think not even true. I reviewed if there was guilty, my brother wants it, my sister loves it. My mother forgave him long ago. And I just write that is a good man. In all, the least I'm interested in it. But who else knows me.
Next day I wrote this text. They visited him instead. While I was looking for a more creative title than this, Fabian should be sacándole smiles and inflating the lungs again without realizing it. But someone has to throw in the trash or washing dishes, and I delight soap up with this proclamation. My Aunt Gloria came later. It was not the "monkey" who from his youth feel about my dad a fine appreciation. But their arrival did not give me confidence because when it reaches many people is synonymous with dismissal. Once my mother suffered a stroke which to date do not understand. As Aznavour (French singer) The scene was grim. He was stuck on cold cheeks Asunción Silva. But I feel that God has been on our side all the time. Finally recovered. Is back radiating happiness. In the neighborhood enjoys the affection of everyone, even of those who paid the rent and how long it takes, I hit all day.
write this because I have to be afraid of it when I'm gone. I will not repeat the story of Hector Abad. However I think we will forget, but one point in memory that looks like the beam of Miguel Hernandez, and never stops. I see in the history of my pretty Jenniffer an elegy that gives vitality to want me. Life is a candle and suddenly the time consumed, or the wind off the war to force. Or someone not wanting the tomb. Or someone painlessly takes her to another place to light up other nights.
My parents have to die someday, and then, I would have told me in advance.
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