There Is a Sunset

Early morning, the blinding sunlight clings to the earth. I often miss the days of old. When you could soak yourself in the streets playing. Come summer, catching cicadas and roasting them over a fire. Catching grasshoppers, teasing the kitten until it chased us all over the house. Digging out hedgehogs, plucking the spines off their bodies. Because of childhood, because of youth, in ignorance, without restraint. These days I rarely stay in my hometown, and I’ve never seen the glimmering fireflies, or the fields and fields of peanuts and edamame. Looking back I always giggle at my own ignorance, and at the maturity I have now. There’s a willful stubbornness, a silly support, a clumsy giving. They all say I’m still me, just missing the old me. I’m glad — I only do me. With the sunset there, I don’t worry about the gloomy air. I always love her with my whole world.