The smells of my childhood house. The trees by the windows. The smell of the summer rain; the lightning and the thunder. The flowers we picked and played with. My dear books from a long time ago.
The fruits we picked and feasted on.
The terracotta stove yellow and always lit in the winter. The woods in the neighbourhood. The hay stacks dry and golden.
The mountains so wild and luring. The gentle slopes of the green hills.
20 something years went by. Not sure what the rush was about, the searches and many journeys.
Feeling so right to tell my tales to my little people. Every so often getting their ‘wows’. And whenever some reflection time is allowed – feeling 10 years old again.
What’s all the fuss about growing up anyways?