It was a gloomy day. I sat on my chair, watching the raindrops hit the windowpane and trickling down just like my youth slowly slowly and then into nothingness leaving behind a mark as temporary as the next drop. As the wind rocked my chair, I opened my greatest treasure -the only reminder I had of my past my photo album with its worn out edges and creased pages it still smelt like home.
The pages flipped open, almost magically and landed on what I would come to consider the happiest day of my life. As I traced my finger tips across my mother’s face and laughed at my sister’s pose, a lone tear rolled down my cheek and fell on the photograph. All of a sudden, the photograph started to glow and before I could fathom what was happening, I was pulled into an abyss of darkness, momentarily, and I woke up in the middle of a living room filled with balloons and party decorations.
I looked around frantically, unable to process where I was until it struck me; it was my fifth birthday frolic sixty years ago. This reminded me of one of those bed time stories mom would read to me, only better. I could see my dad in the corner distributing toffees to some of my friends. A heavenly smell pulled me to the kitchen where my mom was attempting to bake a cake. A sudden squeal made me run upstairs, something my weak legs hadn’t done in a long time, I saw a little girl trying on a puffy pink dress.
A dress she picked herself for her big day. At that moment I realized, how I could see everyone yet I was invisible, probably non-existent to them. The celebration was a modest yet a timeless one. The party games making more children cry than laugh, and the spilled sodas all wanting me to stay in that very moment. Alas I spoke too soon for when the clock struck twelve I could feel myself losing control and spiraling back to reality. In the twinkle of an eye, I was again back on my chair rocking and reminiscing the photos. At that moment I truly believed that every picture has its own story.