The reader Mahmoud Abdel Aziz writes: "Before my father dies"

Citizen journalism

What to write, this was the urgent question or the question of the trap, a fleeting fleeting moment, and the pen tilted his head, and he began to share my confusion, and Annpereth wrestled with myself, to bring about an imbalance in myself, returning to my worn-out memory, but to no avail. I thought carefully about what my pen would do, and I think that the whole world was looking forward to my talk with courtesy, and I was left alone for a few minutes, even if I were so desperate.

the first scene:

At the age of eight, I woke up crying from my mother's continuous scream, and she woke me up to go to school.

– O my son, haraam against thee, the sun is coming, thou hast overcome me with thee.

I would shake my head with a cup of milk and force me to swallow it at once before leaving for school. I was surprised at the time of her strange contradictions, once Halima with me, sharing smiles and talk, and again, strong and stubborn in its decisions, I was not a hungry child, I was blessed with the word "present" you like or not, and not only for fear of my mother. A question in my mind has remained unanswered for many years. Why was my mother tormenting me with such force, without committing a serious sin against her? As I grew up I realized the answer, but I did not excuse my mother !. And according to her perception she wanted me strong. But I also did not understand until now, what did I do for her land?

My father was rushing to me in the middle of that hustle, answering my requests at once, without causing confusion or feeling any embarrassment. He receives me by his arms, which the whole world uses, and includes all my words and contradictions, my successes and my anxieties, with my ears, which only hears its noise, as if the world had suddenly been pierced by my inner torment. I still remember that day, and I come back from school in my dirty clothes. I have the horror and grief of meeting my mother, but he reassures me that the situation is fine, and I take a sigh of relief and quickly clean my clothes very quickly.

Scene Two:

Five years later, on the afternoon of his eighth year, my father asked me to drive the car when he saw me outside the mosque after the Asr prayer, without any prior warning or warning. The Koran radio recited Surat Yusuf, peace be upon him, specifically for what his brothers put in the well, and left him to the car .. I asked him spontaneously then:

– Where was the days of our master Joseph cars !!. She is not a mistake in the Qur'an.

Did not hit me, did not make fun of me, but smiled, then said:

"It is not a mistake or a need, it is meant by the car here, people, not Arabic.

I said in a shy way:

-Uh understood.

Then he said:

– You are the first to connect the house, look at the book of interpretation and read the interpretation of the Sura, and what Mtavhmosh say it and I help you .. We agreed.

I nodded, yes, and proceeded to tell me the details of the story of our master Joseph peace be upon him. After he finished speaking, we stopped at a fruit vendor on the corner of the road, bought enough mangoes, washed them well, then smeared our hands and faces with their great effects. I did not forget to tell stories about my brothers when we returned home, as a kind of outrage, but increased fictional novels did not happen, until the fighting broke out between me and my brothers for days.

*

I remember these two positions and we are both on the threshold of departure. It is closer or perhaps closer. I do not know how fate works in a precise way, but I write those lines with vague determination in my soul. Something deepened me without inviting me to neglect other scenes.

There are many stories in the bookcase. There will be no room for the possibility. They always call me "Professor". I wonder what professor I carry. I do not know. I have not done so yet. I was very ashamed when my friends smiled at him and called my father at the time with a look of admiration.

"Papa I sat the job".

I did not live in a profession for more than a year. I could not put myself under psychological pressure. The worst came out. I ran away to escape to patience, but he used to say to me:

– Do not care, hate to meet yourself in need better.

And he held me as usual.

My father did not carry us what we do not like, but we carried him what he can not hold, and he is still solid, with both feet on the ground, my father is still fine, that's all I wanted to say. Here I can stand up a bit. Fat, and write another line adaptable.

I do not know who is worthy of it, my feeling is renewed, and my tireless desire to sit with him for some time, gives me overwhelming confidence, so I do not feel the feeling that they invoke me all the time except his person only, without any other titles, and Being, Father, I still feel the meaning, as if I had just come out of my mother's womb.

I smile, write, praise, I win .. all of the product of this man.