Memory of a Floor 2

I’m four years old in this memory. One summer day, I’m staring at the kitchen floor of our tiny half-dilapidated apartment. I’d just slithered on my stomach from the living room, and now, half of my body is sprawled on the kitchen floor while the other half remains in the living room.

The cool touch of the wooden floorboards is refreshing. I press my cheek against the floor to cool down my body. The smell of the old floorboards reminds me a little of the library we visit on weekends.

I marvel at the way the familiar room looks like a totally new world from this angle. I gaze at the legs of the dining table, the bottom of the fridge, then further down, the bottom of the washing machine, and count the dust collecting underneath them.