Reckless act


Once on a warm summer day, when the holidays have just begun, I walked on the street with the guys. My mother called me to dinner. I quickly ate and wanted to run to the street. But my mother stopped me. “Finish the bread,” she told me. “I do not want to,” I answered, “you throw it away.” Mom frowned and asked me to sit on the couch. “What you are offering me now is a very bad deed, and you should be ashamed,” she said.

And then my mother told me that a piece of bread, which I wanted to throw away, is part of the hard work of many people.

Bread is our dearest wealth. To respect it is to respect the work of those who grew it. Bread is a symbol of prosperity and happiness.

My mother told me how it was necessary to have a small piece of bread weighing 125 grams to people in besieged Leningrad, how many people died from starvation in 1933 in Ukraine. She told me that our family had bypassed this grief. It is difficult for us now to understand this fear of insouciance, and we should be grateful to those people who have grown and baked this fragrant bread.

I listened attentively to the story of my mother. And I felt ashamed of my words. I took my piece of bread and ate it in silence. Never before has it seemed so tasty to me.


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Reckless act