Bmw Front Plate Install

The day my father became a tree glove box

My mother never spoiled me dig in the dirt of the mountain. Yes on the sandy beach or the park, but not in the bush. Once I was surprised to do so. Your father did him no good, I said. No. And he repeated. Never again. I loved her. My mother was dark and high. Never again. And it swelled the veins in his neck, as small and thin branches were simmering with his jugular. I do not remember the height of my father, and her hair could not see him ever since, when I was born, he was already bald. Of it remains in me a picture. Just one. Maybe dreamed, invented, carefully selected from the pages of a book of illustrations. He leaning back, with two huge plastic bags covering his hands and his face, a beard like chipped, thick, reddish skin and and hardened, forming small mounds blackish. Your father is no longer out of bed because their roots have been fused with the inferior wood headboard. So my mother never let me sleep on any couch that was not iron. If possible, without storage, with the mattress on the floor. As a result, many were the nights that I spend with her. Huddled. I do not remember the time we left. Perhaps he was 2 or 3 years. Maybe less. She screamed. The branches grew in his neck. And seeing the light is turned into shouts that sawed the air, spreading bark on my ear small wind that used to tickle me.
say that over time I forgot my father would be inaccurate. With three years old was not to forget or to remember. Soon, very little of the time slots left in my memory still readable. The rest are encrypted hieroglyphs, which often collide with reality, coated with indecipherable past. Do not play with the earth of the mountain, my mother told me. Your father was involved in that. Or why not tell her but that was my only one conclusion. We walked through the woods, endless hours. Some nights I even slept outside in summer, with the heat. Together. Do not pull the bark, I cried when I saw a tree fingering. At first I was frightened screams. My mother often left me alone. That hurt. Especially in those moments that was in a trance and was approaching a small oak snatched me with painful sufficiency, the caresses that were for me.

So, perhaps with a vengeance, more than once tossed out the window plants and small trees that adorned our home and she watched and watched with great zeal. One of those times came from the street with the pot shattered in his hands. From it hung a small stem dead. The look of my mother was panic. Among the land could see a small heart-shaped stone. The branches now spread across his forehead, arms, hands and eyes. Look what you've done. I said. I've killed. I threw the plant and, soon after, his face took on a semblance of repentance. His eyes seemed to sink under the ground, many feet deep, light years ahead of me, as if nothing could desecrate the surround image who knows what underground. Let, then wipe. I felt that something was bothering me in my index finger. He had a chip embedded in the flesh.