A childhood map is a patchwork quilt
Hastily stitched together,
In an attempt not to forget.
Memories are patches, often misplaced
With holes between them but thread holding tight.
You can read your quilt like a novel,
Knowing all is not true,
But still they are your memories
And they're all you have
Of a time when you ran
Blindfolded, through the sharp sprays of the sprinkler;
Dressed in skimpy bathing suits,
Which hung off your rod straight body
(Asides from your bulging baby belly)
Surrounded by screams, shouts, cries
At theme parks, where you'd ride all you could,
But hope to grow,
So you could do more.
But not old enough to be an adult
Too old to enjoy yourself...
You'd run around and never tire;
Hiding behind trees, jumping out at your friends:
You were a monarch, a knight, a naughty child.
Immersing yourself in an imaginary life,
Playing the rebellious teenager,
Something you yearned so desperately to be.
And you grew
Tall enough to enjoy every ride
Tall enough to climb all the trees
Tall enough to be the tallest in your year,
Which gave you all authority.
Until you grew.
Too old to explore new worlds,
Too old to get dizzy,
Spinning as you ate around the flake of your 99.
Too old to have fun.
No longer a child.
And still more to grow.
Original Image by Lucy Roberts