When I visited my father’s old house in Kenya in January, he looked as though he’d been dead for three months.
His body was covered in a brownish-gray-white mass that looked like it had been in the river for years.
The old house had been built on a site that belonged to a man who had been selling his own land for a few years.
His father had been a shepherd who lived a nomadic life and sold his farm to make money for his family.
The farm was a piece of land that had been passed down through generations, with little regard for its use or the land that it sat on.
I asked my father why he’d chosen to sell his land to strangers.
He explained that his family was a farmer, so he’d thought that it was his duty to help his own family grow food, as his father had done.
But the land was too valuable to give to anyone else.
My father asked me to come to the house and meet his wife, who lived in the village nearby.
I left in a hurry, hoping to meet my father in person.
I had no idea what I would find in the house.
We met at the kitchen and had a few drinks before we went to the basement, where I found my father.
He told me about the land where his family had been living, the old farmhouse that had belonged to him.
The house was old and decrepit, but it still served as his home, so it was a good place to stay when he wasn’t on the farm.
But his wife had died when she was six years old.
He’d spent her last days in the old house, and had spent the years since that day preparing the land for her funeral.
My mother had moved to a different village a few miles away, and when my father died, she was left in charge of the family farm.
She had started out selling her own land and worked her way up to owning the family home, which was a few blocks away.
The family’s farm had long since been sold to another family, and my father had planned to sell it to the new owner, but the owner wanted more land than my father could sell.
So he turned to a herbalist, and they both started growing herbs in the garden.
The herbs in my father the herbalist’s gardens grew in huge numbers, so my mother started selling them to the neighboring villages.
My grandfather had bought his land in the late 1980s from his wife’s cousin, who sold it to a local farmer and bought it from him.
He gave the land to my grandfather, who worked it until he died in 1993.
My grandmother had bought the land from her aunt, who died a few months later.
My family moved to the village where my grandfather was born in 1996, and now it’s where I live.
The herbalist grew herbs and sold them to villagers for his livelihood.
He was a local man, who had grown up in the same village, so we used to hang out in the gardens.
I don’t know what happened to the herbs that my father and I grew in the past few years, but we’ve started seeing the same kinds of things in the surrounding area, like dead animals and birds.
I grew up in a small village, and I’m sure that there are people who still grow herbs, but my father didn’t grow any, and his family didn’t want to give him any.
But my grandfather didn’t need a lot of money to do what he wanted to do with his own time and to help people.
He wanted to give away his time to others, so when he died, my mother bought him a small plot of land and a few chickens, hoping that he would give them away for the benefit of others.
He passed away a few weeks later, but he left behind many of the herbs and chickens that he grew.
After my mother’s death, my father inherited a small amount of the land.
He grew some herbs and herbs-like a variety of wild roses and a lotus flower that he’d grown in the wild and that I’d grown.
My parents and I have been growing our own herbs in our garden ever since, and it’s helped us keep the village from becoming too crowded.
But we can’t be everywhere at once.
My sister is from a village in the north, and she grows her own herbs and sells them to locals.
She lives in a village just outside of Nairobi, and every year we go to her village to buy herbs.
In Nairob, there are about 30 people who live in one-room huts, and there are just four or five people who stay in one place.
My brother lives in Nairobo and we have been talking about growing our herbs here for years, and we’re trying to raise enough money to buy a home and start a small farm.
My uncle lives in Kenya