Memories
I remember. It was a special day. My father got home earlier from work. He grabbed me and my little sister (I helped pushing the pram) and took us to the park while my mother went for groceries in the market at the corner. It was late afternoon, it had rained, and there was a sweet smell of wet grass. We played there, and my father took pictures. And when my mother had finished shopping she took what was to become one of the rare shots of the girls and dad. It was a special day. These were some of the first color photographs we had ever seen. Now that they are faded, and the smiles are paler, I wonder. How memories have a way of remaining inside us longer than photographs. I look at the pictures, and now that I had my babies, I can see that my sister was barely sitting by herself and should have been younger than one year old. Therefore, I couldn't be more than a two year old then. Still I remember it all so well: the blue dress, one of the very few I had that was bought from a store, the blue and white bag that was my pride because it was just like a grown up's, and the sweet smell of fresh grass. Happiness was a simple, handmade gift.
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