I received the singing doll from my uncle back when I was little.
It was a usual thing for our relatives to pass around toys and books in the family, from the older children to the younger, so that everything could be thoroughly exploited by the many ruthless children hands. So when my father told me that I’ve just got some new toys that afternoon, I was already half expecting something second-handed, which I’ve probably seen during all the family visits.
Don’t get me wrong. I was not some annoyance taking up the form of a spoiled child. A toy was a toy, and I would always be happy to have toys. Simple as that. But I also had those small dreams sweet-spirited children hid deep in their mind: that I could some day get a really fancy new toy for my own.
‘It seems the mailman might have broken his back delivering the package here,’ chuckled my father, always with a sense of humor.
In the living room sat a tall box — too tall from my child view — of plain cardboard. It looked as if a mountain of toys could be piled up in there. （繼續閱讀…）