I came across an old photograph.
It was taken around June 1993, in Beidaihe, Qinhuangdao.
That year, I was fifteen. My father was forty-two.
At the time, he was general manager of Chengde’s livestock products company. He had organized a staff trip to Beidaihe, and I went along.
In the photograph, I am sitting by the sea with diving goggles and a green swimming ring. My father is beside me, smiling at the camera. Waves wash onto the sand, and the beach behind us is crowded with holidaymakers.
I have forgotten many details of that trip: where we stayed, how many days we spent there, even who took the photograph.
What I do remember is that it is one of the few photographs of my father and me together.
In 2003, my father died of an illness. He was only fifty-two. Just ten years had passed since the photograph was taken.
Today, I am considerably older than my father was in that picture. With a child of my own, I have gradually come to understand more of the life and responsibilities of his generation.
When I was young, my father always seemed so much older than me. Only now do I realize that the father in the photograph was younger than I am today.
Thirty-three years later, the old photograph had faded. Restoration brought color back to the sea and made my father’s face clear again.
Technology can restore an image, but it cannot turn back time.
In the summer of 1993, waves washed onto the beach at Beidaihe.
My father sat beside me.
We were both still young.