We arrived in Venice early in the morning. It was January. The second we walked out of Venice station, I turned my collar to the cold and damp and complained to my friend who was wrapping herself up tightly with a heavy woolen coat. Neither of us knew at the moment that we would be so taken away by the beauty of this city just a few minutes later.
“When did you meet my mom, dad?”
I asked the question out of pure curiosity—and sheer boredom caused by the noisy yet meaningless soup opera. It seemed that my father only noticed the first part of my emotion. “Well,” obviously he was happy that I dragged him out of the exhausting watch-the-show-with-your-wife process, “we met at high school, an afternoon, when your mom was learning to ride an old bike and successfully ran into me—” Continue reading
I was never a difficult child. That was what my mom told me.
Now when I look back, I found it a bit hard to really recall any long period of intimacy with mom and dad. They were always busy—still are. I couldn’t really remember the last time I acted in a childishly wayward manner—as other kids naturally did. Well, the last thing I ever want in this world is getting my dear loved ones into trouble. Glad that I’ve been trying my best. Continue reading