I always loved going on holiday. My father and sailor, the head of the carriage procession in navy blue, my mother talking to the GPS as if it were an old girlfriend. And then me on the back seat, bare feet, laid casually on the stack of books Vacation, those that were borrowed from the library the day before departure. It stretches through green and yellow wheat fields, armies of sunflower at attention you towards the sun. Sometimes an old song on the radio, when not listening to the news, my parents singing, sighing, his voice full of nostalgia, sometimes my mother boasts, lyrical "I packed on this slow," and we laughs, shaking the tires and rain falls. The wipers make ola, the road spreads out under the metal ah mountain roads, and turns! More than turning, gut, intestines cement. At the bend of the valleys rise from time to other inns and ski slopes. The weak stomach, I steamed down the window, he made four degrees outside, I changed my mind. It What there, behind the mountains? I mixed up the clouds and haze.
I look at my father's hands tap the wheel: his wedding ring on his finger glows with short nails. In my heart a photo album, and a smile on his face tattooed as indelible.
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