My childhood was a fun-sized candy bar...
Short and sweet.
Granted, it wasn't that long ago.
But my memories are poignant, and they continue to sting me with the bittersweet sadness that fills me with longing.
Each year takes me a step farther from my childhood—
and this, of course, is an inevitable trap that I have and will always try to escape.
My sister and I would try to bring ourselves back.
We would play on our old VCR the Blue's Clue's cassette tapes we checked out from the library, claiming that they were for our little brother (who did not exist).
And when my parents wanted to sell our house last month,
I was indignant.
It was the house we had been renting out to clients...
The only house, in fact, I remembered living in up until a few years ago, when we rented it out and moved into a new home.
It was the house where I tried tomatoes for the first time.
They were so horrible I cried.
It was the house where I played with my stuffed animals:
the 20-something Webkinz I collected and named in the span of 5 years, the tiny taro-colored teddy bear that I squeezed whenever I was upset, the stretchy koala that played music.
It was the house where I would stare out the windows—
after school, on a rainy day... I would listen for the thunder, feeling grateful that I was at home in the comfortably-lit shelter of my parents' den, sipping a cup of homemade hot chocolate.
The house with the figs, the hummingbirds, the snails...
I would never be able to walk around in that house again.
But as I move on and look into the future,
I find myself wishing for the joy-filled days of my childhood.
My future might be just as bright.