Dear... The Past
When I was a child my parents would tell me that I mustn't wish to grow up quickly, that I must enjoy my time at present, as a child.
I didn’t take it for what it was at the time, a warning. But little me couldn’t grasp why something as simple and so unavoidable as growing up seemed like such a horrible thing. Why would I?
When my world was what I imagined, whether it be indistinguishable drawings on the pink pastel paper that my dad provided for me, no matter how much I used; to my back yard where I carried a stick around pretending I was a pirate. To the late evenings where I would play on the sofa, being tickled until I couldn’t breathe. Or, when before bed I forced my dad to record me putting on a puppet show (something I now deeply regret).
Where winter was my favourite time of year purely because at school we would mess on the little-to-no ice, slipping and sliding. Where we threw a mixture of dirt and half melted snow at each other, our cheeks and noses rosy from the cold; laughing and screaming in glee before the big hefty hand held bell signalled that class begun.
When I couldn’t wait to enter the house, because the moment you stepped inside you could feel the heat emitting from the fire place.
But that was a long time ago. Now I understand, when I wish I wouldn’t. Now I understand what was meant when my aunts or uncles laughed warmly, telling me I lived in my own little bubble. That bubble is burst now, has been for a long time. But no, young me in my little bubble, who idolised parents - undeserving of it now - didn’t understand the problem with growing up.
What a foolish child I was.