I was cleaning my attic last weekend when I came across what I used to call “memory book”. It was an old one, maybe about ten-years-old. I love doing crafts like that. Instead of just compiling the photos just like a photo album, I love writing the stories. It’s in the stories where the memories that came with the photos are preserved. I have about a dozen new scrapbooks in my study, all of them containing memories with friends and family. This one though belonged to my old archive, which I stored in the attic to make way for new memories.
I came upon one picnic photo that I had with the family years ago. It was a picnic beside a lake near our hometown. It was just us family—my parents, my brother, his wife, my niece, and I. My niece was just about two-years-old. In the photo, my niece’s cheeks were smudged with something gooey and sticky, which I now remembered as cheese. My sister-in-law fed her with a small chunk of Mom’s famous stuffed chicken. She seemed to like it so she snatched the piece and stuffed it in her mouth. Well, I can’t fault her. Mom’s stuffed chicken are the best I’ve ever tasted until now. I remembered that they had to bathe her in the lake just to remove the stickiness all over her, causing my brother to fall head first to the lake. Ah. Good times.
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