I have a terrible memory. Ninety-nine percent of my childhood that I know of is purely from stories and old photographs.

They said: you used to love climbing trees and could stay up there all day.
Well, my grandparents did own a lychee farm so that seems plausible.

They said: you had a best friend who would give you free ice cream from his mother’s shop.
I do love ice cream. Maybe that’s why I liked him?

They said: you had a lovely teacher who couldn’t bear to waking you up from nap time and helped you tie your shoes.
Even now, sleep mostly still loves me and I refuse to tie my shoelaces when they come undone.

They handed me crinkled, laminated pictures with no real answers to my questions:
Who was that shirtless boy (No, he was not Ice Cream Boy) standing next to me?
What was I wearing (Those frills were a sight to behold)?
When did I ever go there?
Where did those toys go?
How did our preschool class performance (I was a bee!) win second out of all the different grades?

I might never know if those stories were true or not. I might never know the answers to my queries. I might never know. But that’s okay. I’ll just appreciate the these moments in the present a teeny bit more.

Love, February~💛

P.S., that pixie cut should not be attempted again, future bea.