Childhood, thinking back right now as a slightly matured human being with more knowledge than before, was like a cotton candy. It looks sweet and beautiful, but it gets sticky when I get closer and try to savor it.
I remember the first time leaving home alone when I was thirteen.
I remember me still sleeping when the sunshine seeped through the crack of the windows in my balcony, creeping onto the floor, and covering the entire floor with gold.
I missed my dad forcefully kiss on my cheek with his mostly shaved face; I missed telling my mom my life in school every day; I missed hanging out with my friends on the track in the school; and I missed visiting my grandparents every weekend, eating the most delicious meals in the world.
I had the blinds open, the moon was up high in the sky, and the moonlight lighted up the sheet on my bed, like the way movie theaters release movies. I sat on my bed, stared blankly at a distance, and memories started to flash in front of me.
“She was a woman with stories.” my mother calmly said. “She had been through the World War II; she survived breast cancer; she had a big surgery in her ninetieth; she had food-binding; and she was a pious Christian who prayed every single day.”
One night after school, I was sitting on my bed, exhausted, and covering myself with a huge snow white blanket.
I was always careless, not only just forgot to bring books to school, but also forgot to remember the spoiled love my family has given to me.
I remember my extremely messy hair during middle school.
I remember Ms. Simpson from middle school.
I remember the poem my grandfather wrote for me when I was born.
I remember “A Hole in the Bottom of the Sea”.
I remember telling my great-grandmother weather reports each night.
I remember forcing my grandfather telling me stories before naps.