IVOR
Finally, after all the double hard work that has to be done in the farm because Mom's not here, Dad and I sat down over dinner to discuss what happened. In front of us was a bowl of tomato stew with spinach and slices of red radishes. It was a cold evening, the rain tip-tapping on the roof like a marching band and the windows were closed because of the chilly wind. I cannot speak for everyone but this type of weather is what I define as perfection.
Dad was wearing a thick jacket just like me. On small bowls, he scooped two servings of the soup and placed one in front of me. The smoke brought the appetizing smell to my nostrils and I was intoxicated, not by something addictive, but with the smell of tomato. It's as if I can taste them at the back of my throat.
"I believe this is the perfect time you have to tell me what happened, Dad."
