I remember cool summers in Michigan where the grass touched my knees. Two story houses lined the streets and family was everywhere. Children ran around outside above ground pools with their shirts off, cousins having water balloon fights and climbing trees. Building forts inside and staying up late to watch DVDs in our grandparents’ basement. The sweet taste of dollar ice-cream truck popsicles that stain your hand and melt before you can get the first lick. I miss the everlasting daydreaming and the toy houses and the silliness. I miss the swings and the sweaty games of tag and running breathlessly down the street, where all the cars knew that kids were playing. So they let us be.
I was usually the oldest, and often the only girl. Sometimes I had an imaginary sister, but always a very real brother. We made a pact to be best friends forever, and wrestled with all our might until we got older. Eventually, the summers became shorter, and the grass no longer touched my knees. The tune of the ice-cream truck that once turned the corner seemed fainter. The promise of forever became so naive then. But in our hearts we knew that you could still catch a firefly, make a wish and release it. You could still let the untamed child in your heart remain curious about the changing of the seasons. You could still work up a sweat and then come back inside. Home.
The funny thing about childhood is that you have no conception of its ending. The child has no reminiscent nature, and nothing to reminisce upon. Childhood is fleeting only in adulthood. As a child, I think it is forever. This is where I find solace.