The Portrait

My mother never forgave my father for killing himself, especially at such an awkward time and in a public park, that spring when I was waiting to be born. She locked his name in her deepest cabinet and would not let him out, though I could hear him thumping. When I came down from the attic with the pastel portrait in my hand of a long-lipped stranger with a brave moustache and deep brown level eyes, she ripped it into shreds without a single word and slapped me hard. In my sixty-fourth year I can feel my cheek still burning. Stanley Kunitz

много силно.
обичам какво учим по литература, анализите, които ни дава да правим и уважението към начина на мислене
изумява ме, че успявам да ги накарам да слушат какво говоря, че успявам да я впечатля

няма неотплатено усилие