nostalgia

The scent of tea brewing enveloped
early morning air, mingling into that of
freshly mowed lawn; Grandma’s pattering
footsteps could be heard across the wall,
along with the squeaking of doors
in spite of being borne on well-oiled hinges,
signaling the beginning of another day. Every sunrise,
we used to sit down upon pale yellow
straw mats spread out on the porch;
drink in the morning hues;
thank God for the life He’d blessed us with.

I was a child then, immune to the cruelty
of the world, unable to understand pain;
basked in the sheer joy of youth,
pleasures only a child can feel,
beauty only inexperienced eyes can behold.

They say we learn to live as we grow older.
Nay, rather, we forget the meaning of life itself.