The heart of the watermelon by Danka Todorova
When I was young, in the summer when the watermelons matured and spilled their sweet fragrance everywhere, we sat with our grandfather in the yard. Like an ancient ritual, Grandpa cut the watermelon, then gave me the heart of the watermelon with a piece of white cheese and a slice of bread. It was our lunch in the summer. "I've also been to America. - began to tell his grandfather once. Like all the families living in the plain, we planted and grown vegetables and fruits and did everything we could do about them, from planting to selling. Once men went on a quest to look for luck in finding work as gardeners in the Czech Republic. Me and me with them. He then went to Spain, where he worked as a croupier in a casino. "Spaniards are the most beautiful women in the world. He sadly added with his deep voice. "Thank God I had a dog named Poker ..." The memory came alive in my grandfather's blue eyes, and two small raindrops flowed down his sides, looking for a path to his heart. His hands asleep lying in his lap. His curly black hair was always wrinkled, like Clark Gable's haircut. My grandfather was a remarkable man and a lover. All this I realized years later when I grew up. "On the American ship I met a man who needed a driver. So I found myself in America looking for my happiness and earning money. I've worked a lot - in a restaurant, in a shop, in an auto service. Two years have passed. I could not forget your grandmother. I called her seldom. At our last conversation, she said, "You're not coming in a year, I'll marry another." My grandfather came back. Then my mother appeared. "When life is spent and you have no one to look for and seek help, all you need to do is just sit back and cry. For your feelings to come loose. Release them to make you feel better.
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