Befitting correction
My father always warned me about one thing whenevet I was playing with stones. He always warmed me never to throw stones up in the sky He would repeat this every time he noticed a stone in my hand.
But I loved it, There was something magical about picking up a stone, feeling its weight in my palm, and then throwing it high into the air. I would watch it fly, with excitement as I aimed for the bright blue sky. The joy it brought me was like nothing else. One of my friends was the one who taught me the bad habit.
I remember those afternoons spent in the open field near our house, sunlight pouring down like liquid gold. I'd stand there, surrounded by tall grass swaying gently in the breeze, and pick up stone after stone. Each one had a different shape, size, and color. I would imagine that if I threw them hard enough, maybe they could reach the clouds. It was a simple thrill, just the feeling of freedom and my own little adventure, aiming for the sky and nothing else.
But my dad never liked seeing me throw stones, maybe because I was a girl but he tried to make me understand that a stone thrown too high can come down with great force and it might land on someone’s head or it could hit something important, like a glass window, and then I'll have to deal with the consequences. He always told me this.
Despite his warnings, I couldn’t help myself, I would hide when my Dad wasnt looking and continue with my habit, but deep down, I knew my dad’s words were wise, just didn’t think it would happen to me.
Then one afternoon, everything changed. I was playing in front of our compound after throwing my selected stone high up in the sky, I saw it go above the tall palm trees and above roof tops.
I stood there in shock, my heart was pounding as I processed what had just happened. That crash sounded all too familiar like a shattering glass.
Till today, I cannot tell all that my buttocks saw in the hands of my father.
After the inhabitants of the house that I broke their glass window came to report to my parents.
But I loved it, There was something magical about picking up a stone, feeling its weight in my palm, and then throwing it high into the air. I would watch it fly, with excitement as I aimed for the bright blue sky. The joy it brought me was like nothing else. One of my friends was the one who taught me the bad habit.
I remember those afternoons spent in the open field near our house, sunlight pouring down like liquid gold. I'd stand there, surrounded by tall grass swaying gently in the breeze, and pick up stone after stone. Each one had a different shape, size, and color. I would imagine that if I threw them hard enough, maybe they could reach the clouds. It was a simple thrill, just the feeling of freedom and my own little adventure, aiming for the sky and nothing else.
But my dad never liked seeing me throw stones, maybe because I was a girl but he tried to make me understand that a stone thrown too high can come down with great force and it might land on someone’s head or it could hit something important, like a glass window, and then I'll have to deal with the consequences. He always told me this.
Despite his warnings, I couldn’t help myself, I would hide when my Dad wasnt looking and continue with my habit, but deep down, I knew my dad’s words were wise, just didn’t think it would happen to me.
Then one afternoon, everything changed. I was playing in front of our compound after throwing my selected stone high up in the sky, I saw it go above the tall palm trees and above roof tops.
I stood there in shock, my heart was pounding as I processed what had just happened. That crash sounded all too familiar like a shattering glass.
Till today, I cannot tell all that my buttocks saw in the hands of my father.
After the inhabitants of the house that I broke their glass window came to report to my parents.
