I think we should all pay more attention to the familar yet not that significant people that are every so often present in our lives.

today, I went to the coffeeshop for breakfast with my sister and brother which we used to visit every weekend in the past with our parents for breakfast. but as time passes and we slowly grew up, we no longer visit that dirty but homely place as often anymore.

the noodle stall aunty who has been there forever since I was a primary 4 kiddo actually remembered my extremely fussy order. what was worrying was that aunty didn't look as though she was in the pink of health but instead looked frail and aged. i was too chicken to ask if she was ok for fear of looking stupid and i sorta regret it now. the bowl of noodle didn't quite taste as good as it should have been, with some tingle of guilt and shame mixed in the concortion.

then came the porridge stall aunty to clear the plates away. interestingly, her comment to my sister was, ni3 shi4 da4 jie3 ah? my sister was quite piqued that she was being called the oldest but i was secretly quite happy that i didn't look that old. haha talk about how time changes the way people look.

she moved on to describe how we were when we were little lithe things romping the earth and now we're these big, humongous creatures that have undergone a metamorphasis called, puberty. how the time flies. but not the memories of these stallholders whom, i wonder how many metamorphasis have they seen.

it's the little things in life that makes human, human. things can change and life moves on. but the intrinsic things that people remember you for you, can sometimes be hard to change. in the eyes of my favourite noodle aunty, i'm still the same old 'little'girl i used to be and she still hasn't come to terms that i'm already 18, no longer as little as before.

the refusal for change, can sometimes be a breath of fresh air. embrace this stubborness but accept the inevitable losses. then, entwine all these into memories you'll keep and occasionally reminisce.

-every man's memory, is his private literature-