I'm beginning a new project. During the summer my grandfather on my mom's side began writing memoirs of his childhood, and my mom translated them to basic English for my siblings and I to read. Lately I've been taking those translations and attempting to "adapt" them. Not exactly my grandfather's story in his own words, but at least through the eyes of his bloodchild. Telling someone else's story is much more difficult than I thought, so today I thought I would get through at least two chapters but instead barely got halfway through one. It's not much quite yet, but I'll keep you posted.

CHAPTER ONE: THE FIVE-YEAR-OLD

My mother began her days in our sleep. Brisk moves soft enough to still ease our morning yawns; in a room that barely fit the five of us she found space to create for herself a ritual. Leave the surfaces spotless, clothes folded, and father asleep while she scooped three boys from their slumbers and quickly out the door.

Like most five-year-olds, I was the one left with nowhere to go. While my older brother went to school and my younger brother was passed to the neighbors, I found myself just one floor down from where we made our escapes, waiting for the arrival of my father who we had just escaped from.

My father's photo studio was basic, even for those days. The wooden table surrounded by three wooden chairs, overseen by a series of portraits in old wooden frames served less as a testament to decorative theme and more of the simplicity that my family relied on for sustenance.

We depended on wooden tripod, old camera and wooden backdrop panel to aide my father who took pictures for a living. My father, who had failed to invest in professional lighting, used the sun from the windows to handle his aesthetics.