I have one fleeting memory left of my childhood. My grandpa's farm, the smell of burnt rubber from the highway, the sweet aroma of corn, the small animal feces that would occasionally stick to my shoe and later my mom would get angry when she found out. The long walks down to the old dying oak tree, it used to seem bigger than life itself. Picking up dirty pebbles and chucking them into the irrigation canal, then being warned not to fall in. I remember feeling so small, the fields appeared endless, but in that moment it was a good small. A small in which I could shrink into the world and everyone would forget about me, where I could sit back in the rocking chairs on the patio and listen to the wind chimes. Where I could go and chase the feral cats to my heart's desire. Sometimes I forget what it was like to be innocent and childlike, but when I return it comes back to me. The bliss of childhood, and what it used to be.