One day, all of my family and daddy and mom were late on the plane because of some hustle I had arranged as a two-year-old.
When my parents broke into the airport with me
Krasnoyarsk, our aircraft has already landed on the runway.
The father was not confused by this – large and impressive in his officer’s shirt, he briefly commanded the driver to stop the plane and took a ride along the steering track with a blown suitcase in one hand and with me in the other.
An overloaded suitcase could not withstand overload during acceleration.
He had a pencil. The father was even less confused – he grabbed a healthy suitcase under his arm and ran even faster. The next did not withstand the seam of the side compartment - things flew out of it, and also jumped out a metal night pot, carefully tied by the mother to the suitcase for a rope, for some reason long. From the hit of concrete from the pot flew the cover. She was also tied to a rope, but already to a pot. All this multi-stage design, including the papa, wildly jumped onto the concrete, giving off a stunning grief.
My mother walked away from the back, picking up the pieces of the suitcase.

A small plane, crashed no worse than my dad’s suitcase, suddenly stopped. The door opened, and the crew’s commander looked wide smiling. As he went down the staircase, he spoke,
“And I would have flown away, but I heard some whistling and thought that it was something that fell away from me again...”