The tik-tok of the clock lingered around in my quiet room, powerfully and rhythmically. The sound of the paper turning intertwined with the kisses between the pen tip and the paper. As the clock clicked more and more, the paper sounds more and more like the sound while you bite down a crispy chip.
It seemed like they were the only sounds in the space. Yet, I was distracted by the distant chat of my grandparents outside in the living room and the sound of the ridiculous anti-Japan play from the TV in my grandparents’ room across the corridor. The harsh sound of the gunfire and sometimes screaming. The melodrama-cliched background music mixed with my grandfather’s laughter transmitted through my room door from time to time. I could hear my grandmother cooking in the kitchen even further away: the vegetables splashing into the hot and oily pan, kitchen knife chopping on the cutting board, and my grandmother’s slow steps walking from the hearth back and forth to the fridge and washbasin. Soon, I could hear my grandmother walking towards the table and placing the plates filled with food – some were heavy and full, some were light and small.
Outside the window was the sound of cars flashing by the street. My dog sometimes barked as soon as he heard some talking from the people walking by our garden. I could also hear the wind softly blowing through the leaves outside the window: sometimes like a soft cotton ball, sometimes like an older man’s whistle, and sometimes like two children’s conversation that I could barely understand.
This was a memory of me sitting in my room at around 5~6 pm on weekdays doing my homework during my middle school—the regular schedule and just like the time between each tick of the clock. The companion of the distant sound from my grandparents while I do my homework will be less and less in the future. It is a memory of warmth and happiness with my loving grandparents.