Good morning everyone. Today I'd like to talk about the memory of my childhood.
Maybe lots of people cannot tell it exactly what their very first memory is, but I do. I do remember a scene that I sat in a house, facing the opened front door, and see it snows heavily outside. I can recall the silently flying snowflakes, snow-covered woods… that were really beautiful. At first I knew nothing about where such memory came from, but my mum was surprised to know that I remember this. She told me it was during a spring festival when we lived with my grandparents—I mean my mother’s parents, and they had put me on a chair in front of the door for a photograph. I was only about 1 years old then. Anyway, I was able to make sure that this impression is real. Moreover, I feel it explains why I am so interested in snow. My family is in an area where there is no snowy day in winter, but every winter I have an unchanged daydream that I wake up to see snowflakes outside my window. Now I know that’s because my earliest memory is just about snow, about the life in my grandparents’ old house.
How could I forget that? I remember a time when I can travel back to meet my grandparents. I remember a narrow muddy path leading to their house, a clump of bamboos make up a green sea just next to their fence, and the most unforgettable, their unspoken concern and love. I still keep a storybook given by my grandpa, with words of warm wishes on the title page. I have been told that when I was a little baby, grandpa always held me in his arms and went for a walk after dinner. Sometimes he pointed to the night sky and said to me:“Moon. ”, and I was able to repeat the word after him. Of course I can recall nothing about that, but in my mind there’s always a voice of an old man saying the word ”moon” in a familiar gentle tone. I can’t speak the dialect, but I know how it sounds. It is likely that my enthusiasm towards astronomy comes from that period, because of my grandpa. Things happened at someone’s young age can really affect a lot. And my grandma, this time I can remember, she had lots of interesting folk fairytales which seem to be as many as the stars in the summer sky. Common old lady as she was, she could be the kindest and most humorous person in a little girl’s young mind. Grandma was a Buddhist, she could pick wild nuts to make praying beads for herself and lovely bracelets for me. Time flies but these things must be still hidden somewhere in my home, together with my memory of that time.
Now I have grown up. Everything I talk about seems like a dream long, long ago. Sadly my grandparents have both passed away when I was in middle school. It was such a long way that I couldn’t even attend their funerals. They had disappeared from my life since then, so did their old house. It was sold. Mum and my uncles live somewhere else and maybe, just maybe, their later generations include me and my cousin won’t live there any longer. Well, I never think it’s a good idea. I mean, that’s my maternal hometown, but it can be as memorable as my hometown—even more than that. I was born there, it’s a place where I must travel back some time. I certainly will do that. Once upon a time there was a little girl who left her grandparents together with her mum and dad for a distant city. She was too young to feel sorry then. Now it is me to look back, managing to see a little village. There lies my dear grandpa and grandma, my babyhood in the old house, and what’s more, my warmest memory.
I'd like to end up with a graceful line written by Tagore.
My heart is homesick today for the one sweet hour across the sea of time.
End of the quote.