My mother was and still is my mighty fortress and my father will always be a hero. When I was a little boy, I look at my father with the same amount of respect and admiration as the goodhearted and mighty heroes who fought for the oppressed against the villains from our mother’s bed time stories.
My mother told us countless stories but with always only one lesson at the end-the good will always prevail no matter what the circumstances maybe, something that I believe will always hold true. Back to the times when my young and innocent mind and soul were experiences away from witnessing what the bigger world was really like, I knew I had no reason to be scared, and I will forever be grateful for the kind up upbringing I was raised from. Faith feeds courage like an oil feeds a wick to keep the light valiantly fighting the wind to tear the darkness. Maybe I am diving quite deep so I will now swim up back at the surface by telling you stories about my childhood. I couldn’t imagine of a simpler childhood than the kind of one I had-childhood that was away from megabytes and crawling bots and cyberspace. Yes, my childhood will always be a great stop, worth running back to down memory lane. I will never forget those lively summer days full of happy memories. In the eyes of a little boy that I was back then, the trees, the hills, the fields, the birds and everything was a black and white picture that turns into a colorful landscape come summer days. I can still imagine how the dew-kissed grasses feel against my feet while running on the fields barefooted either chasing quails or running with my kite to give it a good take-off, and when I get tired, I would join others hunting for bird nests and haunting eggs for mock cooking at our play house, my father also built us a tree-house with rope ladder and I remember how I always do not let it down when I am horsing around with my younger brother or when I simply want to shut the world down and be with myself inside that humble tree house I call my own kingdom, when the night falls we would huddle around that magical lemon tree on our front yard which blossoms with multiple blinking lights like hundreds of dancing Christmas lights, I suddenly wondered when was the last time I saw a firefly, and when we get tired, we would lie down the grass and stare at clear summer sky and count as many stars as we can. When we hear our father’s whistle, that’s a wrap and another summer day flips away. We would get inside the house and stuff ourselves with the sumptuous meal our mother prepared with love. After dinner, we would assemble a giant blanket fort, get inside it with flashlights and make animal shadows using our hands, something our father taught us. If we, (me and my younger brother) were good boys and helped with the chores during the day, we were being treated with a beautiful bedtime story by Mom, and off to the wonderland our imaginations wander, walking with the dinosaurs, talking to the fairies, and riding magic carpets and the lead of the stories were usually two young boys (which, I later realized our mother did purposely revised). My mother is the best storyteller I knew and I hope to tell the same stories to my son, which I still remember most, by the way.
Oh time, everlasting time, why are you so quiet yet so powerful? When will you take me back to those young summer days where everything was so simple yet perfect? Where the skyscrapers were the towering trees upon the green hills and not the silver high-rise buildings in the gray horizon? Where our playgrounds were the vast green fields and not the concrete, cold pavements nor the busy sidewalks. Where my wake-up alarm was the chirping of the birds and not the annoying digital beeps? And when the summer is over, the heaven cries and our footprints on the dusty earth were being kissed by the the June rain, washing them away but not the memories. There will be another summer after all, yeah it was true, but it will never be the same. Never ever will be. Well I guess I am reminiscing too much and needs to step back to reality. Summer is almost over and here comes June rain. I’ll make a cup of coffee, look out the window and stare at the gray horizon.