When I was little my father liked to read to the whole family: my mother, my two brothers and I, mostly novels, occasionally, narrative poems. I remember one very long narrative poem “Eagles on the grassland”, it was about the hard life of the nomadic people. Don’t remember much details about the tragic story but remember vividly about the order of the crying. My mother was always the first person to cry and she was not trying to hide it at all. Then was me, I was trying hard to holde back my tears, then were my two brothers, and finally was my father. Sometimes he would choke and stop reading for a while.
Each time when I remember this story, it brings me tremendous warmth, joy, and toghetherness. The strory my father was reading was long forgotten but our own story is living on.
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