Rose petals, sunlight shining between the leaves and boughs of the old mango tree. Patched up hand-me-down jeans so worn that they’re soft and thin, now covered in childish paintings and glitter. The smell of hay and horses, swing-sets, dreams of running away to join the circus.
I mourn my youth. That must sound strange coming from someone still living in that era of their life. I’m young, but oftentimes I don’t feel it. That leads me to ask what is youth? Is it an age? A set number? Do you leave behind youth and become an adult at 18, 21, 30, 72? When are we handed the keys to the kingdom (and the instruction manual too?) Or is youth a feeling, an action, a state of being, a philosophy of its own?
My memory of childhood feels like vintage films. Hazy and sun drenched. Maybe I worry that I’ll forget it. Forget what youth felt like; the wonder of it all. I never wanted to grow up, all the other kids were wanting to be adults, but I feared it. I never wanted to wear a suit, or heels, never wanted a desk, fancy car, or corner office. That’d be a prison to my childhood self: at least I never forgot that.
I don’t think we grow out of youth, or truly forget it. Some people just leave it behind tucked away somewhere in a shoebox. Along with such things as running around barefoot, scrabbling through the couch for spare change to buy lollies and climbing trees to find how far you can see. I savour the taste of wonder, of undiluted joy, of curiosity and adventure: these things I associate with being youthful. They’re precious gems that I want to adorn myself and my life with. Not keep hidden away in a shoebox.