There is a kind of memory that doesn’t belong to words. It lives instead in sensation, in the weight of small, warm hands, in the softness of chubby fingers wrapping around nothing in particular, just because the world is new and worth touching.
Childhood is not a chapter so much as a light. It falls unevenly, golden and unfiltered, on everything equally: grass, flowers, your own curious breath. There is an unrepeatable honesty in those early years, the way attention is absolute, untrained, alive. A yellow flower is not “a flower.” It is an entire event. A hand is not small or big. It is enough.
We grow older and learn to name things, to sort them, to rush past them. But sometimes, for a second, something opens again - a quiet reminder of that earlier state. The world still holds the same softness. We just forget how to hold it back.
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