Memory of decorative fruits

In this memory, I am about to turn six. The winter is ending. My parents are talking about moving out of our tiny half-dilapidated apartment and buying our first family home. Around the same time, many of my friends in the community of tiny half-dilapidated apartments are also talking about moving. Some of them have already left.

I don’t understand what is so exciting about leaving this paradise and getting a bigger house, but I enjoy visiting different model rooms and homes. Sometimes, I go with my family, and other times, I go with my mother and little brother, my two best friends, their mothers and little siblings. They are also planning to move out soon.

One of my friends’ family are thinking of buying an apartment inside a new large condo not too far from our current place. One day, we all visit the model room together to see what kind of housing it will be.

The apartment is nice. But the true excitement awaits when we finish the tour and come back to the reception. In the waiting area, we find a showcase of a dining table. The table is properly set with plates and cutleries, and moreover, they are garnished with high-quality fake fruits.

“Look! We can have dinner here!”

While the adults are busy asking questions to the staff, we six children sit at the dinner table, helping ourselves to an imaginary feast. We marvel at how real the fake fruits look.

“I can assure you, I have never seen any fake fruits as real as these ones, not even at the department store!”

On our way home, my mother seems to be very into this apartment. The condo is located near the hospital where my brother receives his regular treatment for his heart disease, and she thinks it will e convenient for our family if we live there.

About a week later, my mother takes me and my brother again to the same model room exhibition. This time, we go straight to the reception desk.

While my mother chats with the staff, my brother and I run to the dining table with the fake fruits. We both remember how fun it was when we came here last time. Once we start playing with the fake fruits, everything that we said and did last time comes back to my mind. I wonder if my brother misses that moment, too.

We continue playing with the fruits until my mother finally calls us to go home.