I remember my childhood book

Sometimes, when I close my eyes and let my mind wander, I go back to those simple days of childhood — when the world was full of wonder, and even a small book felt like a magical portal. I still remember my childhood book English, with its thick pages, colorful illustrations, and that unique smell of old paper that somehow made reading even more enjoyable.

That book wasn’t just a subject — it was a friend. I remember the little stories with talking animals, kind uncles, naughty monkeys, and brave children who taught me lessons without realizing it. Each chapter had new words, and I used to proudly show off my vocabulary like treasure. The poems with rhymes that danced off my tongue, the stories that made me laugh, and the pictures I would stare at for hours — it was all part of a world I didn’t want to leave.

Even today, when I see children with their school bags, I wonder if their books feel as magical as mine did. Maybe they don’t realize it now, but one day they’ll look back and smile — just like I do — thinking about their own favorite childhood book.

Books are more than just paper and ink. Sometimes, they are memories with covers.