Tag: Memories

the museum in an old chocolate box

Posted on by Ajmal


From Ehan’s box today.

I opened it the way one opens a drawer of old letters, not looking for anything in particular, but expecting to feel something.

Inside, a small white card with “Nasna” written in thick, uneven black strokes. A red glitter heart. A larger green one. A tiny brown dinosaur walking toward a purple egg as if it knows something we don’t. Underneath, scraps of paper. “Chocolate” written in bold innocence. A small container of glow gel. Random memos. Torn edges. Nothing arranged. Everything important.

Children don’t curate. They keep.

That box is not storage. It is evidence. Of what caught his attention. Of what he thought was worth saving. Of what love looks like when it has no language yet.

The way he wrote Nasna was not perfectly centered, not carefully measured, but certain. Certain enough to glue a heart next to it. Certain enough to decorate it with a dinosaur, because in his world love and dinosaurs belong on the same line. There is no hierarchy in a child’s mind. A mother. A heart. A prehistoric creature. Chocolate. Glow gel. All equally sacred.

I sometimes think we lose this democracy of importance as we grow up.

We begin to rank things. Salary above sunsets. Inbox above intimacy. Deadlines above drawings. We stop putting glitter hearts next to names. We stop saving scraps. We throw away what cannot be justified.

But in that box, nothing needed justification.

I noticed something else. The box itself. It was once a chocolate box. Something meant to be consumed and discarded. Now it holds permanence. It has been opened and closed many times. This is not a one time archive. It is a living museum. He goes back to it. Re enters old fascinations. Revisits yesterday’s treasures as if they still breathe.

When was the last time I revisited my own treasures like that. Not achievements. Not certificates. But small proofs of affection. Handwritten names. Uneven letters. Silly combinations that made sense only in that moment.

There is a kind of theology inside a child’s box. It says nothing beautiful is too small to keep. Nothing loved is too trivial to preserve.

Maybe that is the real inheritance children give their parents. Not toys scattered across the floor. Not noise in the evenings. But a reminder. A reminder that meaning is handmade. That value is assigned by the heart, not the market. That memory does not ask for perfection. It only asks to be noticed.

Today, I closed the box gently. Not because I was done exploring, but because I understood something.

He is building memory in fragments.

One day the handwriting will straighten. The dinosaurs will disappear. The glitter hearts will look embarrassing. But this box will remain as proof that there was once a boy who believed his mother’s name deserved decoration. That chocolate deserved bold letters. That love could be glued together with craft paper.

And maybe my task is simple.

To make sure he never fully loses that instinct.
To quietly recover some of it for myself.

Because as I closed that old chocolate box today, I realized something.

This is what I have been trying to build here all along.

A museum.

Not of achievements. Not of polished thoughts. But of fragments. Of feelings caught before they disappear. Of names written in uneven ink. Of moments that would otherwise be thrown away by the adult world.

If his box holds glitter hearts and dinosaurs, this blog holds the grown up equivalents. Questions. Reflections. Confessions. Small awakenings.

He curates with glue and craft paper.

I curate with words.

And maybe this space becomes a museum too. For all of us.

A place where nothing beautiful is too small to keep.

By the way, did you know that I’m actively writing in malayalam also these days. Find them here.

ladder house

Posted on by Ajmal

“My son calls it a “ladder house”.

Not a tower. Not a building. Not a stack of colours. A ladder house. As if the most important part of a home is not the walls or the roof, but the way you move between levels. As if living is simply climbing, step by step, from one little world to the next.

These days, as I’ve written in some other post as well, I try to explore the “inner world” he creates.

I found this one the way I often find his quietest work. Not presented. Not announced. Just left behind, like a small pebble on a path, waiting for someone who knows how to notice.

A soft green sheet, curled slightly at the edges, resting against a dark surface. In the centre, a shape made of thick crayon strokes, layered like slices of something warm. Pink at the top. Yellow beside it, bright and open. A brown curve holding one side like a protective shoulder. A bold green strip cutting across the middle, steady as a floor beam. Then the blue, the part my eyes kept returning to. Blue lines pressed in a row, like steps, like rungs. Under that, orange, then purple, then a red curve at the bottom that feels like an arm, or a door, or the last room where you keep your secrets.

It is not a house the way adults draw houses. There is no triangle roof. No square windows. No stick people smiling under a sun in the corner.

But I know, with a certainty that is hard to explain, that this is a house.

Because children do not draw what they see. They draw what they mean.

A ladder house is not built to impress anyone from the street. It is built for someone who lives inside. It is built for a mind that understands home as layers. Some bright, some dark, some loud, some quiet. Some you climb into with excitement. Some you climb into slowly, holding the sides, careful not to fall.

When he says ladder house, I hear more than a name. I hear a theory of belonging.

In a ladder house, you cannot stay in one room forever. You must move. You must rise. You must return. You must learn which step creaks, which step is safe, which step you can jump over when you are brave.

It makes me think about how he experiences his days.

A child’s day has levels too. Morning is one floor. School is another. Play is another. Hunger is a floor with its own laws. Sleep is the highest floor, where the world becomes soft and everyone else finally becomes quiet.

And maybe, in his inner language, the blue part is the ladder. The only thing that truly connects the whole structure. Without it, the colours would be separate. With it, they become a single place.

I look at the way he pressed the blue, line after line, and I imagine the patience it took. The decision to repeat a shape until it feels right. The small seriousness of his hand. That kind of effort is its own form of love, even when it is not meant for anyone.

There is a tenderness in the materials too. Crayon on green paper, nothing precious, nothing framed. A child does not wait for perfect paper. He uses what is near. He does not worry about permanence. He just makes the thing, and then moves on.

Adults live the opposite way.

We postpone. We plan. We tell ourselves we will begin when we have better time, better tools, better conditions, better versions of ourselves. Children begin in the middle of ordinary life. They begin with what they have. Their courage is practical.

This ladder house reminded me of that.

It also reminded me of how a child builds meaning from colours long before he builds meaning from words. Pink can be a roof. Yellow can be a room where someone laughs. Brown can be safety. Green can be the line that holds everything together. Purple can be the quiet place you go when you do not want to be asked questions.

And red, that red at the bottom, feels like the part you touch last. The part that carries weight. The part that meets the ground.

It is easy to underestimate a drawing like this, because it does not explain itself in adult terms. But a child’s art is often a kind of map. Not a map of streets, but a map of feelings.

If this is a house, then it is a house made of moods.

And if it is a ladder house, then it is a house that assumes you will change as you climb.

I keep thinking about that assumption.

Children believe in change without calling it growth. They believe the next level exists because they have already lived it a thousand times in play. Today a chair is a mountain. Tomorrow it is a ship. Later it is a cave. Nothing stays fixed. Everything is allowed to become something else.

A ladder house is built on that faith.

Maybe that is why it moved me more than I expected. Because somewhere along the way, many of us forget that home can be made like this. Not as a finished structure, but as a living stack. Something you keep building, colour by colour, step by step.

There is also something quietly comforting in the way he centred the whole thing. As if he knows, even at his age, that a house needs a heart. That a life needs a centre.

The edges of the paper are curled, imperfect, like any day in a real family. But the ladder house stands there anyway, held together by intention. It does not apologise for being odd. It does not try to look like the houses in books. It simply exists as itself.

And maybe that is the gift he gives me without knowing.

A reminder that the world does not have to look familiar to be true.

A reminder that a home is not only where you live. A home is also what you make in secret, when nobody is watching, when your hand is free, when your mind is quietly arranging colours into meaning.

He calls it ladder house.

I will probably remember that phrase for a long time.

Because it sounds like something we all need. A place where you can climb. A place where each step leads to another room inside you. A place where the colours do not have to match, as long as they belong.

Tonight, I will keep this little green sheet somewhere safe.

Not because it is a masterpiece.

Because it is a window.

And because, for a moment, it let me stand at the edge of his world and look in.

I may come again with another of Ehan’s art piece. Yes, I’m obsessed! =)

the quietest “i see you” I’ve ever received

Posted on by Ajmal

Last night, after the lights were off and the house had settled into its quiet, I did my usual small thing. I went to the corner where my son Ehan keeps his papers and toys.

Not the ones we save neatly. Not the ones with dates and folders and proud labels. I mean the loose ones. The scraps. The half torn pages with pencil marks that stop mid thought. The ones a child forgets the moment he begins living the next moment.

When he falls asleep and when I clean his toys and his drawings, I always do look through what he left behind. Not to judge. Not to correct. Just to see where he went while I was busy being an adult. It feels like finding footprints after someone has walked through a room you thought you knew.

And in the middle of that pile, I found this.

A piece of lined paper, torn at the edges, still holding the softness of being handled. Pencil lines, confident in some places, uncertain in others. A shape I recognized before I fully understood what I was looking at.

My logo.

Or rather, his version of my logo.

He had drawn a figure, a face shaped like an oval, a single dot for an eye, and around it, rings and curves like a boundary drawn again and again. As if he was not satisfied with one outline. As if the border needed to be repeated, thickened, protected. Then, inside the shape, he wrote the words in his own handwriting. Or probably he got interested in the “borders” I had designed around the head in the book cover to symbolize the “inner world”

THE
BORDER
MIND

Not perfect. Not complete. Missing a word. A little smudged where his pencil pressed too hard. The letters slightly leaning, like they were walking. The kind of writing that does not care about alignment, only meaning.

I don’t know about you, but I am the kind of person who melt with things like this.

Because I did not ask him to do this. I did not sit him down and say, draw my website logo. I did not even tell him it mattered to me. I did not point at it and explain branding or design or identity. I simply lived near that logo, the way adults live near their own ideas, and somehow he noticed. Somehow, it entered his small world without a ceremony.

There is something almost unsettling about that, in a beautiful way.

A child sees everything.

Not in the sharp, analytical way we imagine when we talk about observation. He sees in a quiet, soaking way. Like cloth left in water. He absorbs what is around him, and then one day it appears again in a form you did not expect.

I have spent time choosing that logo. Thinking about what it should hold. What it should hint at. How it should sit beside the title, The Border of a Mind, without explaining itself too much. I wanted it to feel like a silhouette at the edge of thought. A person turned slightly away….

Ehan did not see any of that, and still he caught something true.

His drawing has a kind of honesty that no polished version can reach. The figure in his sketch looks less like a brand and more like a person. A person inside a shape. A person inside a boundary. A person surrounded by lines, as if thought itself has layers.

Maybe that is what a mind feels like to him. Not a clean outline, but a space inside spaces.

The part that moved me most was not the resemblance. It was the intention. The act of copying, which is never really copying. Children do not duplicate. They translate.

He took what he saw and brought it into his own language. A pencil. A small hand. A page torn from whatever notebook was nearest. And then he gave it back to me, without knowing he was giving anything back.

When I picked up that paper while cleaning the cupboard, I had the strange feeling of holding a message.

Not a message written to me directly. Not a note that says, I love you, or I am proud of you. Children rarely speak in those straight lines. Their messages come sideways. In drawings left under a chair. In a song hummed from the back seat. In a sentence spoken while they are half asleep, when their guard is down and the world is soft.

This one came in pencil, and it said something like, I see you.

It is easy, as parents, to feel unseen.

We are present all day and still feel invisible. We pack food, tie shoelaces, answer questions, wipe spills, carry bags, carry feelings, carry time. We give so much that we forget our inner life exists outside our responsibilities. Sometimes even our own work begins to feel like a thing happening in the background, not quite real.

And then a child quietly reaches into that background and pulls something forward.

Look, he seems to say. This is part of you. I noticed.

Of course, he did not say those words. He is still a child. He will not frame it like that. If I ask him tomorrow, he might shrug. He might laugh. He might say he was bored. He might run away before I can even ask.

But the paper says it anyway.

The borders we speak about as adults often sound dramatic. Borders of identity. Borders of language. Borders of belonging. Borders between who we are at work and who we are at home. Borders between the self we show and the self we hide.

Ehan lives inside a different set of borders.

His borders are drawn in pencil and erased with a palm. His borders are emotional. The border between being brave and being afraid can change in five minutes. The border between tears and laughter is thin. The border between imagination and reality is not a wall, it is a door that swings both ways.

And yet, here he is, drawing borders around a figure and writing my title inside it.

It made me wonder what he thinks this thing is, this website, this work that takes my attention sometimes. Does he imagine it as a place. Does he think it lives somewhere physical. Does he think it is a person. Does he think it is mine, or ours.

Maybe to him, The Border of a Mind is not an idea. Maybe it is simply a part of the house, like a chair or a cup. Something he sees me return to. Something he senses has weight, even if he cannot name the weight.

There is a particular tenderness in the way children mirror us.

Not the mirror that shows your face. The mirror that shows your life.

They reflect back what you repeat, what you carry, what you return to when nobody is watching. They do not reflect your speeches. They reflect your patterns.

I keep looking at his spelling, THE BORDER MIND, and I keep smiling.

He left out a word, and somehow it still feels right. Maybe even truer, in a child’s way. A border. A mind. Two things next to each other. No explanation. No linking phrase. Just the two nouns standing side by side, like two strangers who already understand each other.

For me, this is very valuable.

I know this. One day, when he is older, this scrap of paper will matter in a way he cannot guess. It will remind him that there was a time he drew what he saw, without fear of being wrong. It will remind me that my work was quietly witnessed by the smallest person in the room.

And for me, right now, it is a gentle kind of proof.

Proof that a child is always paying attention. Proof that what we build in silence can still be felt. Proof that love sometimes arrives without words, folded into a torn piece of lined paper, hidden among the ordinary debris of a day.

A small hand drew my logo while I was not looking.

And in doing so, he drew a line straight into my heart.

breath and branch, a reflection

Posted on by Ajmal

You know.. sometimes travel memories light you up from inside. This is one such recollection that I want to share with you.  I had travelled to Cold Spring Harbor in Laurel Hollow, a beautiful village in the Town of Oyster Bay in Nassau County, on the North Shore of Long Island, in New York. It is one of the finest green spaces I have ever walked through in my life , a place where the density of the trees creates its own soft hush, where the calmness settles into you before you even realise it, where the slowness of the air feels like an invitation to breathe differently. Being someone who has spent most of my adult life in the Middle East, this sort of a space is one of the luxuries I cherish. The interplay of trees and light were like magic. The sunlight filtered through the trees with a gentleness that made everything look newly washed. I remember sitting on that empty bench for a long moment, letting the silence settle around me. The trees stood in their quiet confidence, their branches stretching into the open sky as if reaching for something that had always been there. Sitting there peacefully, I had a kind of clarity that morning that felt almost unfamiliar. Netta and I (may be Ehan also) have fond memories of this place.

The shape of the trees in particular…made me skim through a faint recollection from years ago. I once came across an old illustration in a very old art book, a simple sketch that placed a pair of human lungs beside the shape of a winter tree. I’m not remembering the book.  The image had stayed with me without my knowing it, tucked quietly into some corner of thought. I had forgotten its details. But sitting there in Laurel Hollow, the memory returned with surprising clarity. The resemblance was unmistakable now. The trees around me were breathing in their own slow language. And somewhere inside my chest, a matching structure was doing the same. I’ve tried to draw it digitally here. I am marveling at the similarity between the lung airways and the tree branches.

The branches overhead divided and softened into thinner lines, narrowing into delicate paths of light. Deep inside the body, the airways mirror this same patient branching, splitting again and again until they reach the quiet threshold where air becomes life. It is almost impossible not to feel humbled by this symmetry. That the architecture of a tree and the architecture of a lung share the same longing. To hold. To receive. To release.One breathes out what the other breathes in. A silent partnership written long before we learned how to notice it.

Sitting there that afternoon,  the shadows of the branches lay across the grass like long fingers of memory. The world around me felt achingly familiar and strangely new. The trees were not just scenery… they were part of a larger rhythm that had been happening around me my entire life. A rhythm my body participates in without instruction, without effort, without acknowledgment most days.

It made me wonder how many miracles move through our ordinary days unnoticed. Trees that give without being thanked. Lungs that work even when we forget them for weeks at a time. The quiet exchange between the two continuing in perfect harmony, whether or not we are aware of it. Whether or not we ever pause long enough to recognise the beauty of being held between them.

There is something tender in this realisation. That the world outside and the world inside are not separate at all. The trees stand on the hillside, reaching upward. The lungs rest quietly beneath the ribs, reaching inward. Both searching for the same invisible gift. Both offering it back. Both shaped by a generosity that requires nothing from us.

Most days, we pass through life too quickly to see these patterns. The branches remain branches. The breath remains breath. The sacred hides inside the familiar. But once in a while, on a morning like that one, something makes you look twice. And in that second look, something opens.

A tree. A lung. Two reflections of the same mercy.

And you realise that all of this continues even if you never notice. But noticing turns the ordinary into reverence. And reverence becomes a quiet remembrance of the Almighty, who shaped both breath and branch in the same loving pattern. A moment of grace. Let not the noise of this life blind our inner eyes. The trees on the sides from your drive back from work, may now look a bit different 🙂

the spaces we leave behind

Posted on by Ajmal

Everywhere we go, we leave behind something unseen.. a whisper of presence, a trace of warmth, an echo in the air. Not in the grand, sweeping way history marks the footsteps of giants, but in the quiet, almost imperceptible way a room holds the memory of those who once stood in it.A chair, slightly askew, still remembering the shape of its last occupant. A book, left open, as if waiting for the reader to return. A bed, still cradling the faintest impression of a dream. The world absorbs these small remnants, holding them briefly before time gently erases them.But not all spaces forget so easily. Some places remember us long after we have left. A childhood home, filled with laughter that no longer lingers. A café where conversations once curled like steam from a coffee cup. A familiar road that still hums with the rhythm of steps no longer taken.We are not meant to stay in one place forever. We pass through rooms, through moments, through people’s lives, leaving behind invisible footprints. And just as we leave pieces of ourselves behind, we carry traces of where we have been..pressed into our thoughts, woven into our memories, stitched into the fabric of who we are.Perhaps we are nothing more than the spaces we’ve filled and the spaces we’ve left behind. Perhaps that is enough.

cycle

Posted on by Ajmal

This is more like a diary to myself. Today is the day my three-year-old had his first outdoor ride on his tiny bike, pedaling beside the shimmering waters. Childlike laughter ringing out, mingling with the distant city’s hum. Sunlight danced on gentle waves and sparkling eyes discovering the joy and thrill of cycling. Despite the thick humidity clinging our skin, every discomfort melted away in that radiant moment. We’d stroll hand in hand beforehand, their little fingers wrapped in mine with boundless trust. Each wobble and triumphant balance attested to their courage blooming. May their road unfurl as beautifully limitless as the waters at our feet. May be, this’ll come back to me as a nostalgic memory later when he asks the key for my car.

nostalgic comforts

Posted on by Ajmal

Memories of childhood are not just locked away in photos or carefully preserved moments. Often, the most powerful recollections come from unexpected triggers: the smell of fresh biscuits, the feel of a warm afternoon sun filtering through an open window, or the texture of an old carpet beneath your feet. These small sensory details often carry more meaning than an album of perfectly staged photographs. They remind us of the times when life was simple, when joy came from a favorite snack or the comfort of a familiar room.There’s a kind of magic in these ordinary things. They have the power to transport us back to moments we thought we’d forgotten, bringing a sense of warmth and nostalgia. As adults, it’s easy to get caught up in the hustle and forget that the beauty of life is often found in the simplest, smallest details.In many ways, our childhood lives on in these sensory memories—creating a personal museum of the past. It’s these little fragments that shape who we are and continue to remind us where we come from.

soundtrack to lives

Posted on by Ajmal

Ever noticed how a song can transport you back in time? One minute you’re stuck in traffic, the next you’re reliving your first dance or a carefree summer road trip. It’s like music has this magical ability to bypass our logical brains and tap directly into our emotions and memories. We all have that playlist – the one that feels like a soundtrack to our lives. Each track is a time capsule, packed with feelings, faces, and forgotten moments. It’s funny how a melody can bring back the smell of a certain place or the touch of someone long gone. Sometimes it’s joy that comes rushing back, other times it’s a bittersweet ache. But there’s something oddly comforting about it all, like leafing through an old photo album with your ears. In a world that’s always pushing us forward, it gives us permission to pause and remember.

chasing your internal compass

Posted on by Ajmal
This is an illustration from a vague memory of a night at Zanzibar.

There’s a persistent whisper in the wind, telling us that success glitters under the spotlight, wrapped in dollar bills and woven with public adoration. But what if true fulfillment lies not on some predetermined pedestal, but within the unique landscape of your own heart? Forget the extrinsic markers of achievement. Imagine success not as a glittering trophy on a distant shelf, but as a warm hearth fire crackling within. It’s the comforting glow that radiates from doing what sets your soul alight, from using your unique talents to make a ripple of positive change, even if it’s just a smile on a stranger’s face. Forget the cold, external pressures that define achievement solely by outward measures. They’re like fleeting shadows compared to the enduring warmth of intrinsic joy.. It’s the spark of joy ignited by using your skills to make a positive difference in the world, no matter how seemingly small. This isn’t to say external rewards are meaningless. Financial security and recognition can bring comfort and validation. But when they become the sole measures of success, they risk eclipsing the intrinsic joys that bring true meaning. Think of them as sprinkles on a delicious cake, not the cake itself. The beauty of defining success on your own terms lies in its boundless possibilities. For one, it’s deeply personal. The artist might find fulfillment in capturing fleeting emotions on canvas, while the scientist might chase the thrill of unlocking the universe’s secrets. There’s no one-size-fits-all formula. Secondly, it’s dynamic. Your passions and goals might evolve, and your definition of success should dance along. The baker who once dreamt of Michelin stars might find equal joy in teaching children the magic of homemade bread. Finally, it liberates you from the shackles of comparison. When you chase an internal compass, you’re no longer competing in a never-ending race against others. You’re celebrating your own unique journey, reveling in the small victories and learning from the inevitable stumbles. So, silence the external noise and turn inward. What ignites your soul? What impact do you long to make? Let those be your guiding stars, and you’ll find the path to a success that resonates deep within your being, a success that shines brighter than any external validation could ever hope to achieve.

the eternal touch of Veluppa

Posted on by Ajmal
In this nostalgic illustration by The Border of a Mind Studios, we see my grandfather immortalized in a quiet moment from decades ago. Captured here in serene reflection, he sits on the sit out of our ancestral family home in Varandarapilly, gazing peacefully into the rain. Transporting us back to a simpler, more leisurely afternoon, this artwork is a portal into the calming atmosphere of days when life moved at a slower pace. It was in such instances of gentle inward-looking that the seeds were sown for the stories he would one day share, fueling curiosity in the generations to come. Though now only represented in lines and colors on the page, this image preserves an instant that nurtured the bonds linking past to present and promises to nourish those yet to be formed.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting vibrant shades of orange across the sky, I sat on the balcony watching it set with my son Ehan by my side. His small hand gripped mine tightly as we took in the beauty of the fading daylight together. Later, when sharing this moment with my father, it sparked a memory from his own childhood. He recalled walking hand-in-hand with his father, my grandfather, exploring the world around them.  As a young boy, he used to explore the outdoors holding his Uppa’s finger, feeling the roughness of his thumbnail beneath small fingers. Gripping his fingers brought him comfort and security. His early discoveries of the world happened through that simple, grounding point of contact.

When his father passed away, my dad was overcome with grief as he held those same hands one final time. When the day came to perform Veluppa’s last rites, a profound grief overcame him. Though lifeless, those fingers represented the connection and guidance his father had provided. It was through him that my dad’s horizons had been expanded and his curiosity for knowledge kindled. As he held those lifeless fingers one last time, he was transported back to being a child exploring by his Uppa’s side. An uncontrollable sorrow welled within at losing the figure who had expanded his mind. Though the physical being was no more, the impact of that guidance lived on.

While my father acknowledges having his own limitations in life, he feels immense gratitude for the curiosity and thirst for knowledge Veluppa kindled in him from a young age with the limited means available to them at that time. That spark is what continues to propel him forward even today. I have never known my father to place importance on lavish possessions or material wealth in all my years and he values his connections above everything and has always chased his passions that are predominantly nonmaterialistic and working towards uplifting and helping people behind the scenes and not vocal about it. He finds meaning and joy in simpler pleasures, a quality no doubt shaped by cherishing moments spent with Veluppa all those years ago and going through difficult conditions during his childhood and overcoming them with resilience. And it is what he hopes will also light Ehan’s path, passing that flame from one generation to the next. Now, my father finds solace knowing a piece of his father lives on through him and will be passed down to the next generation. As Ehan grows, I hope he too will fondly recall our sunset moments together from the balcony, just as my dad remembers his time with his father. Though my grandfather never met Ehan, an element of his spirit remains within our family and will be carried forward. Memories have a unique power to bridge the gaps created by time and distance between generations. In recalling experiences of our past, we preserve the legacy of those who came before us and maintain a sense of connection even after they are gone. My father’s remembrance of his father reminds me to cherish the moments I have now creating memories with my own son that will last a lifetime.

When Ehan grows older, I believe he too will fondly recall our shared sunset moments, just as my father still sees his Uppa’s face when reminiscing their walks long ago. Though my son never knew his great-grandfather, an element of his essence is preserved within our family and will live on through the bonds and memories that connect us across time. Life is shorter than we think.