|
|
|
|
Articles: Moral Stories | My Father's Gift
- Mr. Kiran Ravuri
| |
“And he talked about the holidays, the family that I’d have, what Christmas Eve would be like, the presents and the dinner, and how there must always be an extra plate at the table for someone who needed a meal—as we needed a meal right then.”
“How did you survive on the walk? What did you do for food?” Janet asked.
“Out in the country, there were always fish in the rivers. And in the towns, we would follow our noses to the bakeries, and they often gave us yesterday’s bread. Or we would exchange a half-day’s labor for a few fresh loaves. At first, my father introduced me as ‘Józef,’ then, later, simply as ‘my son,’ and I liked hearing him say it.
“My body got used to the walking— at 14, you can get used to anything. But my father wasn’t breathing well. He had to walk slower and rest more often, but he never complained and he would not stop. His coughing was nearly constant. I carried the compass and the maps and the blankets, and he followed me.
“From Köln, we went into Belgium, and it was less than 80 miles to the coast, but now he could only go a few miles a day, even if I was helping him.
“It was the evening of December 8th when we first saw the water, and I remem- ber my father’s smile—it was like he could breathe again. We were still in the country- side, and he sat down, leaned back against a tree, looked out at the sea, and smiled.
“‘We did it,’ he said. ‘We made it.’
“‘From now on, the ships will do all the traveling,’ I told him. ‘No more walking.’
| Be first to comment on this Article!
| |
|
|
|
 |
| Advertisements |
|
|
|
|
| Advertisements |
|
