unser Zentralgestirn (Sonne) » ose warm memories flooded

The warmest time in my memory is in my childhood. In the memory of childhood, there is the existence of grandmother. Grandma left as early as I was seven years old. Because of stomach cancer. Grandma is the best person in our village to knit sweaters. The children of the neighbors envy me because I have the warmest sweater to wear. They will always surround me and happily touch the new sweater that my grandmother just woven. Until now, in the depths of my closet, there is still an orange sweater to sleep well. I saw the birth of this sweater with my own eyes. It was poured into the love and grandeur of Grandma. For me, when I saw it, I remembered my grandmother. I still remember the way my grandmother wore a sweater. I remember it was a warm afternoon. My grandmother took the wool and sat in the yard. The sweet-scented osmanthus tree in the yard spread a shade. I sat next to her and watched her play the sweater seriously. Grandma pulled out the thread, one hook, two picks, three windings, four pulls, one after another. The orange wool jumped on her hand, and there was a harmonious rhythm that could not be said. Grandma knits skillfully and repeats until I see my eyes sore, but she still weaves the sweater elegantly and elegantly. I once asked her, why do you weave sweaters in the afternoon? My grandmother answered me with a smile of kindness Cigarettes Online. Until one time, she whispered carelessly: "Weave the warmth of the sun to my lovely granddaughter!" "Baby, you have to be a person who warms others like the sun." One day passed, I looked at this. An orange sweater gradually formed and gradually warmed. I couldn't help but ask my grandmother to let me woven Newport Cigarettes. Grandma handed the sweater needle to me. I took it and screamed with a rush. "Ah" screamed. The pain that poked my hand made me cry a little. Grandma gently wiped my tears mokingusacigarettes.com, picked me up, and sang the warm nursery rhymes. The sun shone through the cracks of the sweet-scented osmanthus tree, and the gold-like ones made me dazzled. The world at that time was very quiet and beautiful. Grandma and me, quiet under the sweet-scented osmanthus tree, warm and beautiful. Time seems to stop, so long. But time will not stop. The disease engulfs the little body of the grandmother with time, from strong to wilting. At that time, the face of the milk was thin and the face was sallow, and the hands that could weave the warm sweater gradually grew old. Grandma left. The old home will also be demolished. I sat under the laurel tree in the yard, watching the orange sunset gradually fall to the door, and gradually sinking. In such an evening, those warm memories flooded out. It was my grandmother's wish to drown me in the orange awn. I would like to be an orange sun, warm myself and warm yo
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