Memories of childhood is often stuck in my mind, reminding me how swiftly time has flown and how different things once were. There are moments I deeply miss—like those sunny, warm days when my biggest concern was whether Mom would let me play outside with my neighborhood friends. We'd strategize together, each taking turns begging to our parents for just a little more time. Those were the golden days of childhood—carefree, energetic, and full of simple joys.
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As a kid, I was small and skinny but full of energy. Schoolwork wasn't my strong suit, leading to frequent lectures from Mom after her meetings with my homeroom teacher. Those moments were tense; it felt like time slowed down, and I dreaded the outcome. Looking back now, it's amusing how much I stressed over my grades. I was pretty sneaky back then. Eventually, I got my act together, especially after Mom decided to switch my schools.
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Summer was my favorite season, the time I eagerly awaited all year. Why? Because it meant the longest school holidays. Every summer, my family would head to our village for at least a month, sometimes longer, to stay with my grandparents. While extended stays could get boring due to the lack of peers and activities, the village had its charms. Surrounded by deep green forests and towering, tree-covered mountains, the air was crisp and refreshing—a perfect retreat for peace and relaxation.
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I cherished my relationship with my grandparents. Despite Mom's strained relationship with them—she never spoke to them or even stood in their presence—I felt warmth and love from both. Grandma would cook for me, and I'd trail behind Grandpa everywhere he went. Those times were calm and comforting, and I wished they could've lasted forever.
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About four or five years ago, while studying at home in the city, Dad returned with a sad, worried expression. Sensing something was wrong, I approached him and asked, "What happened? Is everything alright?" He hesitated, concern etched on his face, before sharing that Grandpa, who had been full of life just days prior, had suffered a severe stroke. The stroke left him bedridden, unable to stand, walk, or manage daily tasks on his own.
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Fear gripped me; I couldn't bear the thought of losing him. We planned to visit in a few days to see how he was doing. Nervousness attacked me; I wasn't sure how I'd handle seeing him in such a state, but I knew I had to go—it could change everything.
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Upon arrival, neighbors had been helping Grandma and Dad care for Grandpa. I stepped inside and saw him. I barely recognized my own grandfather—weak, thin, struggling to speak or move. My heart shattered. This wasn't the image I had in my mind; things were far worse than I had imagined. The man who had been so energetic, hardworking, and strong, even in his later years, now couldn't even move on his own.
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When he looked at me, I saw a flicker of happiness in his eyes. I approached him, asking how he was, words failing me in that moment. With great effort, he lifted his hand and grasped mine, placing it on his chest. He patted my hand gently, using all the strength he had left. He struggled to speak, his voice barely audible, but I heard him say, "I'm not scared anymore."
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Tears welled up; I tried to hold them back but couldn't. The weight of the moment overwhelmed me. I stepped back, unable to contain my emotions. Those were his last words. His hand grew cold, weaker, lighter. The happiness in his eyes faded. The grandfather I had visited every summer was gone from this world. Things didn't get any better after that.
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