childhood revisited

The trees hung lightly, full of newly minted leaves of green shading our path as we biked.

Lilac wafted through the air reminding me of the backyard bush of Number 111, the yard of my childhood. The flora was so abundant it rained on our long lashes, carpeting the ground. Its saccharine smell filled our lungs for endless weeks.

We pedal forward on our bikes, up the hills and down the hills. I remember the hill my only friend in our aging neighborhood and I secretly referred to as "Hell Hill," careful never to speak its name around any adult ears. Its steep and lagging incline separated our homes but deigned not to stop our daily romp of the neighborhood.

At home, the charcoal glistened with heat. The berries were prepped for a touch of honey and mint. We sat by the grill, waiting, ready to devour spring's fruits, sipping a drink, relaxing and wondering if this could last forever.

Nostalgia slips past, clothes to launder, scuff marks to remove, sleep to reclaim.

But spring, the childhood season, lays its claim on our hearts.