I wish I were a child again. I pictured myself as a young toddler, who mommy dresses up in cute playsuits, blouses with lots of ribbons and frills, whose hair mommy combs everyday and ties them up in pigtails and who mommy difficultly puts one foot after the other into those cute Mothercare shoes that squeak a lot. I’d say things like ‘dah-dah’ for daddy and ‘to-to-lehyt’ for chocolate. I’d wave ‘goo-boo’ for goodbye and if I’m really lucky, I’d get to play in the park, with my daddy pushing my swing. I was in Oman back in 1987.

I remember these bits of memories a vague fragment of my past, my childhood. Hazy-like I stood in a middle of a park, in my pink jumpsuit, clutching my Ernie doll, I looked at the camera, and showed off the dimples in my cheeks.

It felt good being the only child for a while. I got to enjoy it without even remembering it. What a quirk of fate. Things like this shouldn’t pass without being thought about.