I look at an old, crinkled photograph, and in an instant, I'm whisked back – a small child again, cradled in his mother's arms. Her soothing voice fills the room, hushing the world around me. Her gentle sway rocks me, the rhythm like a heartbeat, steady and reassuring.
This glosses over the sound of my elder brother crying in the background, feeling unseen. This forgets how my mother had to quit her job, sacrificing her career to hold her newborn. And this overlooks how I used to wet the bed, leaving me dirtily restless.
It’s strange how time has a way of smoothening out the rough edges of the past, making everything seem just a bit more faultless than it probably was. Yet, this past is so inviting, so alluring, that I find myself longing to live there, in its perfect, untouchable memory.