Do you have a favorite childhood memory? One that warms your heart and fills you with joy every time you catch a glimpse of it in the mirror of your consciousness? Memories! Ah, silly little things! The bad ones we block, the good ones we hold on to as precious souvenirs from our past. Sometimes, we misplace them, then rummage through picture albums desperately, trying to find that smile, that dress, or that pet or person who once brought us so much joy. And while some are lost forever, fading with the old printed pictures, some remain as vivid as if they happened yesterday.
One of my favorite childhood memories is sitting with my father in our family living room during the evenings, reading children’s stories together. I can close my eyes and recall the smell of his cologne and clothes. In those evenings, he must have been tired, but he always had the energy to read a book with me.
In the winter, we would nestle on the couch near the old-fashioned wood stove, where a kettle of tilia tea softly whistled as it brewed. The warmth from the stove wrapped around us like a comforting blanket, and the flickering firelight beamed across the room. My father’s velvety voice made the words flow like a river, carrying me away to magical worlds and far-off adventures. When the story ended, I would always ask him to read it again, and he would oblige, not just once but two, three, maybe even five times. Nobody was counting; it was just us, lost in the tales, until my head felt weightless on his shoulder.
In the summer, we would sit near the open window, feeling the gentle Black Sea breeze rustle the curtains. The scent of the sea mingled with the pages of old books created the perfect atmosphere for storytelling. My father’s voice seemed to blend with the distant calls of seagulls and the horns of departing vessels, making each story ever more enchanting. As the stories unfolded, everything else faded away, and we were entirely engrossed in our literary journey. When my eyes finally grew heavy, and the reading stopped, the quietness of the summer evening settled in. The only sound was the soft purring of our family cat, a soothing backdrop to the treasured moments shared with my father.
