I never expected to see.
I first think they are photos. Photos of me as a small child, as a kindergartener, as a elementary school
student. When I look closely, I realize that they are not. They are paintings, done with different mediums.
Small and thin strokes of varying types of brushes have created a replica of me, beautiful images with unbelievably subtle details all drawn in place. I turn the pages, and there are more, more, an endless amount of
pictures of me, smiling, crying, eating chips, lying down on the beach, and riding a seesaw.
These are perhaps the most perfect pictures I have ever seen.
I realize that all those times that I had thought my mom was working, she had actually been drawing
pictures of me. We never had a camera. This was the only way for her to leave memories and remember those
moments. And now she was preparing to give me as a present for my birthday. I see that she has written that
she is sorry that this is all she can give at the front.
I feel something warm tickle my face, my whole body is quivering, but I have never felt so happy, so
loved, in my entire life.
I stay there, in that room, rolled up like a ball on that studio floor until I hear mom open the door.
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