The door into the house, I put the bike into the garage, son take the initiative to two handbag slung on the arm, freeing both hands to support me by the arm. On the stairs, he said, "my mother, mother, you go slowly.!" This sentence sounds naughty, but I temporarily forget the pain of the leg.
Late at night, sleepless reminds me of Tagore's poems, one time, we dreamt that we were strangers. We wake up, but we know we have be deeply attached to each other.
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