Inhale.

 

Inhale.

As my hand brushed against the wildflowers, a dew drop waltzed with my fingers. An eight year old me rode my shiny red bike in circles, the roads too wide, diffused sunlight and dewy mornings filled with grandma's ancient stories. A yellow butterfly flitted about before picking its choice of nectar, carefully perching itself on a flower top, airing its tiny wings out. Tinier flowers, hiding in the background like a spray of blue, too easy to miss, brought joy to the 12-year old detective me, who was following the trail of a ladybird, hunting for toadstools that housed elves, hoping they'd invite me in for some tea and lemon cakes.

Acres and acres of green, freshly trimmed grass of the college lawns poked against my back as I lay facing the heavens above, watching the stars babbling angrily, my head still reeling from a kiss. The Great Bear became an old friend who silently watched over on those midnights when early summer became a silent late night lover, leaving behind a sillage of a promise of a bloom. My fingertips squealed in shocking nostalgia when the dimly sunlit morning mist caressed them, my head too busy to notice how times had changed. In a breathspan, ages were lived. And relived.

Exhale.