In this memory, I am five years old. My father likes reading books whenever he is at home. He usually starts reading his book seated on the couch of our tiny half-dilapidated apartment. But since its rock-hard surface is not exactly comfortable, he slowly slides down, and in no time, he is lying on the floor, reading with his book held above his face.
This is when my brother typically comes along and finds him to be an object of interest. My brother picks up my yellow Japanese dictionary and lies down next to my father, at the bottom of the couch. He then opens a random page of the dictionary and holds the book over his face, mimicking our father.
“Look who’re reading books!” My mother passes by and exclaims. “Two people are engaged in their reading!”
My brother starts giggling, and my father’s concentration is also broken. I am watching them from nearby, and start laughing, too.