chef de proza 2

'Is it our turn yet?', he asked.
She did not answer but they knew best stories were told last, as well as they knew that the best story would not be shared at all. They stopped for a moment trying to predict what was there to be told. For a point of objection, however eloquent, they paused, offering themselves something to give any sensitive person, and particularly close to their feelings, a simple pause.

'Imagine the perfect child. With blond curls and green eyes, with hands not larger than a tea cup, with teeth that were just grown and with sparkling eyes that could only enjoy walks and leaves and flowers, the mother's hair, or rain. Though not aware of how many dangers a world without questions might hide, though never being left unprotected by dust of time or wind, she could be aware of change. She simply wondered through flowerbeds, starting her glance through the grandparent's lavender garden. The reward was close. The main goal was to reach the roses and happily return with a flower for grandma. Then, being satisfied with grandma's smile she would ask for every day's reward: the embrace that usually offers protection, care and the mind with all the most incredible stories with most unusual characters. For that, grandpa existed.'

to be continued...