Old buildings have a mysterious charm. The house we live in now is also an old house that my wife's grandfather built over 30 years ago.
My wife grew up in this old house when she was a child. When I listen to her talk about her life here, she speaks of many hardships I never experienced. Sometimes it sounds as if I am listening to my mother telling me stories about her childhood as she says, “That's how it used to be.” To me, my wife's stories sound like tales from another generation separate from mine. But we live together now. Maybe it means that Taiwan is changing at a rapid pace.
Now, at the time of this writing, my older daughter is seven years old, and the younger one is four years old. Before I knew it, they were standing and walking, speaking Chinese more fluently than I do, and sitting at the piano playing Bach's minuets. Each event must have had its “day it was achieved,” but I really can't recall any of them. Things happen in this house at an incredible pace, as if I were riding in a time machine.
Some things begin at some point, end at some point, and just when you think it's over, something else begins again. And yet, no matter how long time has passed, I feel like it's all engraved into the light pouring through the windows of this room − and it hasn't changed since the beginning.