The Place Called Childhood

It’s always like that. When the snow starts falling the memories keep flowing. I go to the nearby park and watch the kids playing just like I did back there, in the place called childhood. In that place my feet are soaking while I'm sliding down the hill on a piece of nylon given to me by Grandma. Slidings of memory. My nose is runny, my hands are frozen cold and feel as if a thousand tiny pins poke my skin. But I don’t want to go home and witness my parents’ endless quarrels. I ask my sister what it is that they so intensely argue about but she doesn’t know either. I don’t dare asking my Grandma who is always smiling even when crying; smiling through tears never explained to me. Soaking feet, frozen arms and sheer happiness. But I still have to go home. There will be warm soup cooked by Grandma who will take my wet shoes off and will keep my feet in her lap until they start burning with warmth. We will prepare my lessons together and I will count the hours until my parents come home, wishing to stretch time and never get to this moment. It’s always like that. Now, many years from then, it’s again so cold that a thousand tiny pins seem to poke the skin of my hands holding the camera. I take pictures in the present but the images are those of the past, of that place called childhood where the snow is just an emulation of crystal-white nostalgia. Childhood is the place where memories are snow.