Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Aetna Custopay My Bill
In my town there is a special day, the day of St. George. On this day, they are given books and roses. The rose represents sensibility and the book culture. Both come together to give a gift to the spring. The smile and enthusiasm are described in all persons, known or unknown.
I'll tell you something that happened to me two years ago or maybe three. It was an April 23. I was sad because none of what he had done had turned out as expected. That day, for reasons I can hardly remember, nobody gave me a book that dream or a rose to admire.
In the work handed out roses to my friends and I got one. It is customary that we usually do. But no one had come to offer me one, if only it had been of paper.
When I finished my homework, packed my things and left with broken illusions of a mind that was said to herself that it was all nonsense. My inner struggle did not prevent me jump out tears that wanted to dispel.
The road to the car seemed eternal, between the distance and my struggle. When I arrived I found the parking lot, caught on the windscreen of the Zafira, a red rose. I do not know who put it or if it was casual, but I went to home with a book written in crimson petals.
Sometimes little things make again dawn.
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