“What are you doing? Just leave that!” I cry at my sister and run to the basement under the loud hoot of the air alert. She lingers in the kitchen, potting about, hoarding stuff.
Some minutes before the blackout she comes down with two cluttering bundles. I lit three candles on our improvised table, and grumble, “They could have killed you with a bomb.”
She huffs and unpacks disposable plates and plastic containers with salads and fried chicken legs. The smell of homemade food turns my stomach up.
“My ass they will. I won’t let them spoil our Christmas!”
Some minutes before the blackout she comes down with two cluttering bundles. I lit three candles on our improvised table, and grumble, “They could have killed you with a bomb.”
She huffs and unpacks disposable plates and plastic containers with salads and fried chicken legs. The smell of homemade food turns my stomach up.
“My ass they will. I won’t let them spoil our Christmas!”
