Răspuns:
Once my parents took me to see a brigde. It wasn't a famous bridge like the one from San Francisco, the Tower Bridge, Millau Viaduct from France or others. It was a bridge built in the forest, near grandma's village. They never took me there before. It was unexpectedly beautiful. The wood was old and wet, mossy. But it was like in the stories grandma used to tell me. Under the brigde was a river, a small one, cleaner than the Black Sea water. I could hear the birds, the way they sang, the harmony created around it... It was all divine.
My parents made that day, that summer, that year perfect not only for showing me that bridge, but telling me the story from they knew about it. The story was about my grandma and it is probably a story for another time.
