Every Sunday morning, I take my daughter to my parental home,
a place where I had grown up. Strange enough,
this particular routine allows me to revisit a place that
I was very familiar with, and in the eyes of an outsider.
Like good photos could speak, a place can hold memories
from the past. Here I find memories of my father.
My mind is a time machine, and nostalgia is the temperature
that can keep someone warm in heart.