It was the garden I played when I was a little girl living in my grandma’s place. The ground now was decorated with tiles and bricks. Except that, the biggest difference is my grandma and I can not see each other day by day. The truth was since I worked in Beijing, I only can come to see her on the long holiday, it was totally three times a year, less than half months.
She was elder than I thought, she had to curve her back to walk slowly in small steps. She was not the grandma who could chase after me for a long time. From the picture, I could not recall what she talked with me. Her hairs were less than last time I saw. All of the are as white as snow. She was still shy for that, no, I should say she was worried about that. Because for her, it was the signal about death which was the thing we all know since we have come to the world. She tried to use a hat to cover them but did not succeed. Every time, when her neighbors’ greeted to her and said she was as healthy as usual, she would be so happy with a big smile.
I missed her so much and treasure this picture as my life. She is the dearest person who raised me up and made me laugh every day.
I read some books about great writers, and directors, from there works I know that the family member from their childhood will influence them a lot. The love they gave or not gave and the experience they shared or not shared will leave stamps on their writing and life.
The photo is a container of memory and it is the time machine if next time I do not know what to write I will use it to bring me back or get inspiration. And in the writing content, when the character needs to recall some memory, using a photo to let he or she go back is a good way.
