The smell of smoke is pungent.

The neighbor’s bonfire brings back memories of campfires and wiener roasts.

As children we are so eager to grow up we don’t savour the moments (if this post is triggering I’m sorry)

Running through the country side, picking and eating wild strawberries. Watching grandma make her buns and jams. Playing in the attic. Sleeping under quilts that smelled like the sun.

Riding through the neighbourhood on our bikes. Coming back caked in mud from head to toe. California kick ball, kick the bucket, dodge ball, and fireflies in the dark.

Do fireflies even exist anymore?

I miss those days.


♥writing was all I had, all I’ve ever had, the only currency, the only proof that I was alive. Memory.♥ each of us has a story to tell. Leave your thoughts. Leave your comments.

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