The black cloud had darkened the street in the early morning, and there in the queer gloomy silence of the street, was my father saying good bye to all of us, leaving for the borderline; for an obnoxious war. There was little time left to say a lot of things; things that mattered much, and yet could not be expressed easily. The war had been invigorated over the western boarder, so it could have been the last time I was looking at his lax, deep eyes. I started weeping uncosciously; I was too young to comprehend this huge separation, to digest what this chaos was for. And there it lied, the very last statement of my father murmured in my ears, "If I died, don`t cry for me. Think of me. These days tears don`t matter, thoughts matter, thoughts matter. I will always think of you; I will close my eyes, and recall you. Take care of yourself."
He caressed me with an odd hesitation in his face, and a strange shake in his hand. Then he was disappeared in the twilight, looking ahead, afraid of looking back and getting caught with the tears swirled in his eyes. I allowed myself to cry just once while they were burrying him so gloriously; his eyes were closed.
