I remember those endless summer afternoons when time seemed to stretch like warm honey. The grass was always a little too long, and the sprinkler would create these perfect rainbow arcs when the sun hit it just right.
We’d build forts out of cardboard boxes that Dad brought home from work, and they’d last exactly until the next rainstorm turned them into soggy, defeated structures.
The sound of the ice cream truck was our Pavlovian bell—we’d drop everything and run, pocket change jingling, bare feet slapping against the hot concrete.
Those days felt infinite then. Now they feel like glimpses through a window that’s slowly closing.