I was once a child who ran barefoot through the fields behind my grandmother’s house. The earth was warm, the sky endless, and the wind carried the laughter of my younger self. The world was simple then—fireflies were tiny lanterns guiding me home, and the stars whispered secrets only I could understand.
I remember the summer storms, when rain would pour down in thick sheets, and I would dance in the puddles as if the water could wash away time itself. My grandmother would call me in, a towel in her hands, and scold me gently while ruffling my wet hair. The scent of her soap and the warmth of her embrace were the safest places I ever knew.
But time does what it always does—it moves forward. The fields grew smaller as I grew taller, the fireflies seemed fewer, and the stars quieter. The laughter of childhood faded, replaced by the hum of responsibility. The world, once so full of wonder, became something to navigate rather than explore.
Yet, every now and then, when the rain falls just right or a firefly flickers in the night, I remember. I was once a child, and maybe, in small moments like these, I still am.
