The Place Called Childhood
It’s always like that. When the snow starts falling the memories keep flowing. I watch the kids joyfully playing just like I did back there, in the place called childhood. In that place my feet are soaking wet and I’m sliding down the hill on a piece of nylon given to me by Grandma. Slidings of memory.
I take pictures in the present but the images are those of the past, of that place called childhood where snow is just an emulation of crystal-white nostalgia.
Childhood is the place where memories are snow.