Childhood Summers.

In the belly of my little river, your own river molded itself with mine... In the eternity of my scratched and breathless childhood.

Under that old tree, I stared at the tombs of the villagers who were once as young and inexhaustible as me. Weren't they the ancient teachers of my childhood games? I never saw their faces. I only met them through words etched and painted on marble and cheap molded concrete.

Some days I chanced upon these unlikely ancestors' birthdates. My child's mind conjured up rural parties of native rice cakes and sweet broths and rare gift-wrapped packages.

That numb ached. That lost path. I am meeting them again.

Rediscovering them.

Reconciling with them.

Thanking them.

(and) apologizing for the unknown crimes I may have dealt them.

My twenty-six-year-old legs are beginning to feel like their old six years again.

I am once again floating in that river with my own belly of a little river. Staring at that same sky I've always thought was just an outstretched hand away...