Swing to the Moon 

I would let my hand climb on the wavy, dark sky, pointing with the tip of my finger at little shimmers that would fall on my hair. Those velvet nights were the scenery of my childhood dreams, where I would swing to the Moon, and I would grab her hands and play with her and thrill together.
Old memoirs, pictures that seem to hold the time still, dried roses smelling like teenage stories, red lips kissing letters without destination, summer nights flavored with poppy and corn, cricket laughter, fire-flies charming the lilies, an old swing carrying kids to Heaven, stories from a past that is now like a coming-going short film – losing details but keeping its strong scent.
When I am going through old pages that I have written, I feel like the time has never passed, I stopped growing, somehow, and I am still that skinny, tanned girl sitting on a chair in a wooden castle, waiting for a charming prince to come and rescue me. The wrinkled porch is my silent witness to all the waiting, to all my crying, to all my leaving home *one* and returning *another*.
I smile at the child I used to be, seeing that I am going farther and farther away, leaving behind: a pair of hands burnt by the summer scorching heat, a wool, red skirt holding ripped cherries, scratched knees, and big, glowing eyes jumping and laughing. I leave behind … a grandmother that would charm the clay pot, for the sweetest beans soup to be served, a tiny table where the dough would be rolled into little flatbreads, long nights watching how the fire would glow under the plums until they would melt into a fine, strong brandy.
Orchards of mirabelle trees hosting running eyes, noises that would make you sit still and listen, hold your breath, and follow the shades that would mingle with the bushes, leaving you in a gentle tremble. Dwarfs, for sure
I would even hear soft clavier notes, like someone was touching them with feathers, and then losing them for moments, filling the void with murmurs, keeping me in a marvel, feeding my already fanciful mind. Grandma was right …
Midnight was walking the Moon to the top of the hills, while I was watching how the light would flow over like a nightgown, dancing through the forest.
I just loved this picture and it felt like there is no other place on earth where I could feel better as a child. I somehow felt that not everyone is as fortunate as I was, to be so free and to have a sky above that would hug my every desire and turn it into a burning flame. Since then, my paths were enlightened by torches of faith
That was a time when in my heart was only room for wonder, for dreams, and in my innocence, I would believe that forever I will be like this. I would have never thought that moments like those will turn into a few fading paintings on the walls of my heart. The world is taking me away from the simplicity of life and teaching me, that fancy is what I am supposed to work for. And so, the wooden house becomes just part of my story that is meant to be left behind.
Life was kind and I was floating above all those creamy clouds and the sense of entitlement that today might lead me to overwork myself existed only in the adults that were running around me. I would just sit still and watch them while thinking that I will never be like that, I will never stop being a child within and I will bring the tales into the glamour of my future. Have I done that?

Sitting these days on the porch, it’s almost like I have never sat there, or I have never stopped sitting there. I am between these shades of mine: one that I grew up in the freedom of nature, one that was forced into me. Within, I am this wanderer that takes his boat and sways with the waves, going nowhere but sending everyone notes that he has found land. How would I tell all those, that I just want to be under the sun’s gaze and then wait for the rain to cry her pain over mine? That I seek no land because no land can hold my steps, that slumdog is my soul and he does not want to be rescued.

I would meet an old friend and let her dress my emptiness, while I will feel my forehead caressed by her cold, familiar touch.
We would share memories and I would be reminded how a swing can reach the stars, how a lonely orb can befriend a human.

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