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Like a prophet who was lying to his people, my grandmother was a cloud. In one of those similar houses, which are close to each other, there is a house, since the government adopted in the late seventies, he remained the same, until his yellow coating was scales, and the iron door heavily dug, and the newspaper boxes, most of which are no longer issued, proven on its wall. Pares were near, on the hot summer nights until they noticed a thread of fire that emanates from the space of his monsters, and they smelled a little similar to a little, but one of them is not a danger, as everyone knows that it is the house of Khalif Ajil, my father, who sponsors his old mother; Clouds; Those who have been investigating the coming of spring for more than seventy years. In every morning, as you practice daily weather, it looks out of the door of the house. She diagnoses her eyes towards the sky. Her hands are tampering with shawl thread; For days when the temperature, for us, reached fifty degrees, surrounded her shoulders. And when you reach below ten, and sometimes zero, the cold doubles in her body, she is scattered with a mystical coat that reaches the level of her thighs. Several steps are cut in the yard, to get to know the atmosphere. And when a gentle breeze does not give it, and it does not bump it heat, which is always what happens, she turns to us, asking: "He is the spring, if if after" and what came after; It is not a spring, just as there is no summer.