The most memorable moment in my childhood is the time when my sister was born. I was three and a half years old. It was the end of July. I was playing circling around a pillar in my house meaninglessly. My father called me and asked if I wanted to see a baby. Not knowing what that means, I nodded.
I don’t remember any other moments. I don’t remember the moment I met the baby, how she looked, or where we met. But, strangely, I vividly remember how I was circling around the pillar, what I wore, how my father’s voice sounded, from which angle he called me, and how the sunlight was coming in from the windows. It was early evening. I remember the air was dull and sweet languidly.