Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct the mistakes in my text?
My father had a bicycle he used to ride to work and to town. It was a blue, sturdy thing that he rode in all weather conditions. You just needed to oil it sometimes and change tires, otherwise it looked indestructible. During the war, my father carried on it the food from charity organisations or gifts from his friends, who took pity on us. On the luggage carrier, he would put a cardboard box filled with oil, spaghetti, rice and tins of fish, and on the spot where a down tube and a seat tube joined, he put a bag of wheat, weighing 25 kg. This was our salvation.
My father kept his bicycle mostly in our garden, unlocked. He was sure it would never be stolen. Many times, for years, some of our neighbours rang on our door, asking him if they could borrow the bicycle. They needed to go to shops, to their doctors, to a factory, to school, to hospital and other places. My father never said no. I was angry and told him he shouldn't be so generous and lend his bicycle to other people. He looked at me with his sad grey eyes and said, "Son, I'm not going to take this bicycle to the afterlife." I felt my cheeks burning with shame. I knew I would never be as generous as my father, never as kind as he was. His world was much bigger than mine. He had faith in humankind that I would never have. And I knew that when he died, hundreds of people would come to his funeral and share their memories of him. None was going to come to mine.
My father had a bicycle he used to ride to work and to town. It was a blue, sturdy thing that he rode in all weather conditions. You just needed to oil it sometimes and change tires, otherwise it looked indestructible. During the war, my father carried on it the food from charity organisations or gifts from his friends, who took pity on us. On the luggage carrier, he would put a cardboard box filled with oil, spaghetti, rice and tins of fish, and on the spot where a down tube and a seat tube joined, he put a bag of wheat, weighing 25 kg. This was our salvation.
My father kept his bicycle mostly in our garden, unlocked. He was sure it would never be stolen. Many times, for years, some of our neighbours rang on our door, asking him if they could borrow the bicycle. They needed to go to shops, to their doctors, to a factory, to school, to hospital and other places. My father never said no. I was angry and told him he shouldn't be so generous and lend his bicycle to other people. He looked at me with his sad grey eyes and said, "Son, I'm not going to take this bicycle to the afterlife." I felt my cheeks burning with shame. I knew I would never be as generous as my father, never as kind as he was. His world was much bigger than mine. He had faith in humankind that I would never have. And I knew that when he died, hundreds of people would come to his funeral and share their memories of him. None was going to come to mine.
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