When I went to her office, Mrs. Vereland was eating her sparrow’s daily lunch: A small shot of the brother’s white label Scotch and a small, small finger sandwich sent by the pole on Lakesington Avenue. “Please sit,” he called me crisp. I could tell in his eyes that he had approved my efforts.
Mrs. Vereland took out a yellow legal pad and a sharp pencil and slightly hugged them. He wore a tiger tooth on a gold chain. “Now, what is your name, young chap?” She was lengthening her concave chest. The strength of his voice released from his small, thin body reminded me of his grandmother when he used to call me home for dinner. “Andre,” I replied.
He started writing in his big, grand longing. Next to my name – I could read what she was writing, her script was so big – she wrote, “The Helper.”
“Now,” he said, keeping the pencil down, “” You will stay next to the night and day. Until the show ends! Let’s go, Kido. Let’s go out in the gallery. Get crackin ‘! ,
I was amazed at a variety of goods near Mrs. Vereland – but was not specifically surprised by the importance mentioned by them. My grandmother cultivated me a love for a well -turned shoes, the cap that had implicated the face only, cleverly chosen the expansion that made an organization special. When I was growing up, it was part of our tradition that glazed-kidskin gloves and good leather shoes such as we love only for Sundays, along with special underwear, and my grandmother’s lace-up loves like the corset, which I saw. When they are broadcast on the chest, such as they come directly from the nineties.
I don’t know how the maternal uncle collected such a good collection of MM gloves, but he did, carefully I budget and save. While I am sure she never gave an idea of anyone about anyone, as the Duchess of Windsor, the remote, her habit of not leaving the house without an additional pair in her bag, her habit she was dirty, without an additional pair in her bag, she was added, she was a habit he shared with her.
On a trip I took to Paris long before the maternal uncle died. I managed to buy the last stock of unknown vintage dyer gloves from the fifties to bring my home. This was one of the couples of the coucher gloves I buried him; And of course, I tuck a fresh pair inside the coffin, if she was wearing a pair, it should be dirty. I gave him a church fan, with a color image of Reverend Martin Luther King. Junior, a small tin of her favorite sniff, and a couple of additional handkerchiefs. I selected the Bhajan “No Tier in Heaven” as part of his home services, which was held on a cold march, which I will always take to my memory. I was happy that I buried her with appropriate items, because I knew how proud it would be to enter heaven with those Christian dyer gloves, which was crushed just below her elbow.
