Remember the faces of the parents who birthed you, beautiful or ugly?
How they looked at your earliest memory.
Recall your face as a child,
As you saw yourself versus how you now recall yourself
The imaginary worlds you could create.
How your laugh howled with no concern for volume.
How you could cry freely when it hurt,
When you were treated poorly.
All the promises you made to your future.
All the things you swore you would never do.
The jobs you would have.
That thriving trove.
Oh, and all those places you would go.
Up and over where the sidewalk would end.
The edge of the world.
The thrill of the steep cliff over which you would fall off when sky met horizon.
There would be dragons to slay, or better yet, befriend.
The letters that gave you trouble as you learned to scrawl.
S’s, proper formed but backwards facing.
The pictures you proudly drew poorly.
The smell of a new-to-you, second hand book. A cheap, new sketch pad.
The sibling you craved but never had; the one you had and came to adore.
Recall falling apart frequently and immediately remaking yourself.
Tantrums displayed or bottled up.
Therein is the eternal beauty of the fleeting.
And, it is yours. No one else’s.
A child, still, in these hills, still.
Anytime you are thirsty, return here.