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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=473453" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Abike Memory</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=473453" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">A Memory. <br>I once was an errand boy and had a big bike that had no gears and <br>our town was hilly. In front of the bike there was a steel mesh box <br>to put stuff in…sometimes when a doctor needed three chairs for <br>his waiting room it was all loaded up and I could hardly see where <br>I was going. But most of the time delivered things like typewriters <br>or ash trays; or delivering letters to clients, the last part made me <br>feel rather important as I was debt collector and taking the money <br>to the bank. Banks back then had a churchly interior and I had to<br>take my cap off before entering; a somber place never saw anyone <br>smile. When not on call I worked in the office putting papers in <br>folders in alphabetical orders, fetch cakes and coffee for the staff. <br>I was offered a position as a junior clerk, but the thought of working <br>in an office for the rest of my life was too much, mother said I had <br>lost an golden opportunity, but she was thinking of what she could <br>tell her sister: " my son works in an office". As my aunt's son was <br>a welder and wore overall. It is a long time ago back in the days <br>I was free to make a choice. Right or wrong I shall not know perhaps <br>I could have ended up as a company director that would have made <br>mother very proud.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Oskar+Hansen">Oskar Hansen</a></strong></div>