I  was always proud that the “creek” in Oak Creek was right in my backyard. With only the struggle to open the latch of the fence, its place embedded into the pole it connected to, skipping merrily quickly took me to the cattails and the large tree that laid right on the bed. My mother always told me that crawfish used to live in the creek, and to be careful so they didn’t pinch my toes. I never saw one, though- she always pulled me out before I  could get too dirty. She hated washing the mud and grass off of me and my shoes. While I  braced the cold water of the hose, I looked over at the apple blossom tree that was just a fence away. It shed its flowers in spring, and once they had all fallen to the ground, it was warm enough to play outside. 

I  would wade in the waters that only reached above my knees, searching for frogs and pretty stones. The willow that slept above the lazy stream would lose its leaves for most of the year, as it was quite old. I remember that my grandma said willows only live to be around eighty. The tree that laid on the creek, inbetween the rows of houses, had seen people move in and out for as old as I would live to be. The tree was withered and decaying, and had lived its whole life here. I didn’t realize it then, but my childhood was fleeting, just as that willow was. 

I  lived in Oak Creek for the first few years of my life. Many things have changed, while I  was living there and while I was living away. The creek is still there, and the willow is too. The willow approaches death, and the creek faces change. Although the water that exists on Earth is constantly following in a cycle, being used, reused, seen as waste, purified, and used again, the water in the creek is dying. The creek will become shallower, and only heavy rains bringing it back to the glory it existed in during my childhood. The tree is shorter than I  remember it being, and the creek thinner. I am bigger. 

None of the facets of my childhood seem to have carried on to the life that I experience today. I am not someone bereaved and threatened with loss. I lead a virtually peaceful life, not faced with pain, grief, conflict, or anything that would inflict whatever emotion it is that fills me with longing. I  long to be able to have the free time to wade in the creek, to get soaked and muddy without worrying about my clothes or whatever is happening next. I long to be able to run over to the neighbors’ house, call upon my friend, and run to the nearby playground. I would ride my bike down the nearby hill, walk along the laps that surrounded the park, run into the forest but be too scared to go too deep. I return home after every excursion, and one day, after a particularly long one, the apple blossom tree is cut down. I  no longer am able to play outside. 

I  can’t remember the last time I went to a park. I yearn to walk around a neighborhood, sit on a bench and read a book. I can’t wait for summer- being able to breathe in the fresh sky that induces nostalgia of the flowing water around my thighs that now nears my shins. The friend whom I  spent nearly every day with for multiple years is just as busy as I . We barely stay in touch, as reaching out is impossible due to clashing schedules and constant events. The ever changing world around me leaves me with a few relegated minutes of rest, and they will only diminish. I am not yet grown, but I long for being small. I am big, but I will soon be bigger.

The past is flying away from me, and as the past faces the future, so do I. It eerily approaches, and I am consistently reminded of that. Every conversation leads into a life lesson, something I am supposed to be or do. My mothers’ nonchalant voice rings through my ears, as if what approaches is nothing to worry about. She may care, but every responsibility falls unto my shoulders. 

“I want You to do what You want to do.”

“I don’t want you to suffer. But I want you to succeed.” 

Many moments lead into the future. Stressors bombard me, and I  am forced to age. I become bigger, and my childhood becomes smaller. I will become something. Sometime, somewhere. And under all of the accomplishments that I‘m supposed to make, I bury the creek below me. My memories of the creek will fade, and the creek will dry out. I no longer am called to the window when a crane appears on the shore. I  no longer look out at the neighbor’s apple blossom tree. I no longer see the dilapidated willow. I am no longer a child. I am big.