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My dad owned an old Nissan back from the 1970s, that seemed more like an aeroplane on the road, given its overly antique look. Dad loved decorating his car with all sorts of weird designs; sometimes black and red stars on white, sometimes a crazy light right on the bonnet, or sometimes he would redo the entire paint job. Old Datson had had several coats of cheap paint this way and his friends usually made fun of that but he never seemed to mind that. That car was his passion, to say the very least. I remember, once on our way to school, something went wrong with the horn system at a traffic signal and it started off non stop. Within no time, all eyes were on us and people laughed at the old car my dad loved so much. I blushed with embarrassment and prayed for this ordeal to be over as soon as it could; it seemed like forever before dad had it under control. A kid in a big flashy car in the next row gave out a big laugh and I hated him for it. Perhaps my dad was upset over the whole thing too; he never showed it though.
It’s been years since I’ve seen our old Datson and I confess that I miss it. Don’t really know what happened to it because dad never told us. I guess he loved it too much to tell anyone, even us, that it broke down or something like that. Dad loved that car a lot, and so did we. Last night I had a crazy dream, but what I remember out of it is my childhood, my brothers younger, when Hassaan wore diapers and when Harris could walk, when mom and dad were a young handsome couple and our old Datson.
Good old days. The flock of memories brought a smile to me. Sometimes memories can be too strong, and I’m glad to have lots of happy ones.