My childhood was ripped out
along with the merry-go-rounds
and the teeter totters.
The rose tint of my youth faded to grey
and my imagination was deflated by reality
like and old helium balloon.
Ironically, everything was smaller as a kid.
The neighborhood block I lived on was my world,
everything I needed
and the biggest place in my tiny existence.
But things changed.
Somewhere between the toilet paper tube swords
and the pillow shields,
we grew up.
The stories of the “volcano” on the way to my
grandmother’s house turned out to be nothing more
than a nuclear power plant belching its steamy breath
into the sky like clouds.
We traded in our toys for
credit cards,
car keys,
and a funny thing called responsibility,
and yet, we long for the days of our youth,
when we could kick off our shoes
and kick off from the ground
because when you were young you believed you could soar.
I want the memories of my childhood,
like the smell of blown out birthday candles
or of freshly fallen snow
because flowers only remind me of funerals nowadays
and age makes you sore
and long for the days of the past.