Memoirs of life in the box

I remember a time long ago, long before I had seen the wonder of streets awash with lights and the marvel of satellite and the Internet, long before I learnt to stop believing in magic and to fear people. Dad was always busy then, he thought he needed to give us a better life, and he did I suppose. Mum was always smiling, and thought a family should do this and should do that. She would put her hands gently atop both our heads and say to us “you must remember, as a family to always have a meal together, and to hold hands while saying grace, and of course to greet each other every time you rise in the morning”. I wonder though if she remembers.

The fondest memories of my childhood is of that time, a time when we didn’t know so much and had even less. A time when we lived in a box, as mum would lovingly call our little home. I remember we had a neighbour a year older than I. We did everything together. I even had to start kindergarten a year earlier so we won’t be separated. I particularly remember our little dips in the neighbourhood lake, how we would clutch each other while shivering and giggling and got scolded good every time. Though not as much as we got scolded for climbing the big old mango tree, or for trampling Mrs Hassan’s tomato plants while we played hide and seek.

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