Campfires

The golden campfires of my childhood.

The sweet warm memories that lie somewhere in the peripheral vision of my minds eye. You can almost see them clearly.

Blurred light, mingled voices, taste of something soft and sweet on your tongue.

Never again to be seen in plain view—

The outliers, the folded eggwhites of life’s lane. 

Where does childhood lie?

It is in the corners of my eyes. The way my crow’s feet have already begun to crinkle with 18 years of laughter. It lies in the way I move my hands, the way my legs itch to run in a circular dizzying way. It lies in the craving to explore jungle gyms. It lies in the need to be held, to cry, to laugh. It is the impossibilities. It is what we have left behind and only can only remember a feeling. The feeling of life in its purest form.

And now, it lies in the growing, warming heat given off by my own fire. The burning, the light, pouring from my fingertips, pouring from my lips, my big brown eyes, down to my little toe. pouring from inside, consuming, and then giving back everything forgotten. 

And possibly, someday, I will fade to a peripheral memory. Something you are quite sure happened, but the face and words have disappeared into the air of time. 

It will be alright.

Our peripheral vision allows us to see in all directions. Our peripheral memories allow us to see in all expanses of time.