I Remember

A sensory journey through childhood summers, from lightning bug jars to the sting of dusk.

I remember, the way the porch boards creaked like they were whispering secrets only dusk could understand.
I remember, catching lightning bugs in a jar, their glow soft as a promise I didn’t yet know would fade.
I remember, the smell of rain hitting hot pavement, rising like something alive and ancient.
I remember, bare feet blackened with summer dirt, refusing to come inside when the streetlights flickered on.
I remember, Popsicles dripping down my wrists faster than I could lick them clean.
I remember, the hum of cicadas wrapping the evening in a sound that felt like forever.
I remember, hiding under blankets with a flashlight, pretending I wasn’t afraid of the dark.
I remember, the crack of a screen door slamming shut behind laughter that echoed down the yard.
I remember, scraped knees that stung but somehow made me feel tougher than I was.
I remember, the way cartoons on Saturday mornings felt like the most important thing in the world.
I remember, chasing shadows on the wall, convinced they were something I could catch.
I remember, the taste of Kool-Aid too sweet, too bright, staining my lips like a badge of summer.
I remember, the quiet moments too—dust dancing in a beam of sunlight through the window.
I remember, the feeling that everything was bigger, and somehow, so was I.


I remember, not knowing what heartbreak was.
I remember, not realizing how much I’d one day miss all of this.