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My father

A sun-burned gong-coloured face,rough palms with thick collus everywhere, lean and muscular---this is my father. I don't know how to describe him for I have mixed feelings about him.

Taking my father's hand, you'll find the loops and whorls on his fingers aren marked clearly by some fine black lines. This is not due to lack of washing up, but due to long time work in the boiler room, dealing with coal every day and night. However, my father does have some defects that a man always has. His wineglass changed from a small handless cup to a chalice though the previous years; His dirty clothes strewn over the bed or rolled up in the corner with cigarette ends; There remains to be only one dish and a single pair of chop sticks for use since others are in the sink, waiting to be washed. If you tidy up the mess for him, just in three days it is as if a bomb had burst in the room.

Nevertheless, just this man, has supported me from junior to senior to university, all by his own self, for my mother passed away when I was eleven years old. He never married again and he gave me the greatest love in the world. My father is always thinking about how to please my stomach. Every holiday I come home from school, the fridge will be stuffed with all my favourates overnigt. By the way, life without mum has made him a good cook, yet he seldom cooks for himself, only when dines with me.

Now my father is in his late forties. Last year, he picked up his old hobby---raising pigeons. Now we have over sixty pigeons living in the 'well-furnished department' on the roof of our kitchen, always with fresh water and diversified nutritious food, clean and comfortable. Every evening, you'll find him crouching in his children's 'deparment', smiling with great satisfaction.

So he is: his daughter first, pets second and himself, the last.

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