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Morning ritual

My great-grandmother’s arm shook very fast to light the firewood, my cousin, my sisters and I came in. The sun poured between the wood in the walls, between the strips of bark, so separated than you could feel both outside and inside. The smoke flooded that place, brisk, boiling, fast in a white hair rush. Volatil fractals alternated in thousand rays of light and shadow. The kitchen became a temple, a prayer to a less technologic past. My great-grand mother, shamanic, seemed to fade out in the hut, her white hair, the lines in her face, her handwoven clothes. While she set tortillas, beans and coffee on a immense comal, my great-grandmother chatted cheerful and sincere, with a low beery senil tone, speaking slow and soft. Everything was magic, unreal. It was the life in Toluca hills, every morning, in my great-grandmother’s house.

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    Morning Rituals


    My great-grandmother’s arm shook very fast unsteadily to light the firewood as my cousin, my sisters and I entered came in. The sun poured between the through the cracks wooden in the walls, between the strips of bark of the wall. , so separated than you One can could feel the warmth of the both outside and inside.

     

    The Smoke flooded [This word is too strong to use here.  You will be choking to death!] that permeated the place, brisk, boiling, fast in a white hair rush. Volatil fractals alternated [Don't understand what you are saying here.  I am guessing that you are trying to describe the scene with your great grandmother.] a head of white bobbling in the midst of smoky swirls in thousand rays of dancing in the light and shadows. The kitchen became a temple and great grandmama's actions are like a prietess offering a prayer to a less technological past. Her white hair, the wrinkles of her face and in her handwoven clothes, she was shamanically fading in and My great-grand mother, shamanic, seemed to fade out in of the hut. her white hair, the lines in her face, her handwoven clothes. While As she set the tortillas, the beans and the coffee on a immense comal, my great-grandmother she chatted cheerfully and sincerely, with in a low beery senile tone, speaking slow and soft. Everything was magical, and unreal. Thus, It was this is the morning the life in the Toluca hills, every morning, in my great-grandmamamother’s [more endearing.  Makes you feel like a kid once more]house.

     

    Very good description and story.

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