I remember an ancient oak tree, leaning over the hill and casting an elegant shadow over our backyard.

I remember how the mud sticking to our rain boots didn’t stop my sisters and me from twirling in our worn princess dresses, the wet grass squeaking under giddy feet.

I remember morning doves perched on a branch, cooing outside my window as the dew on the grass melts with the rising sun.

I remember the perfect climbing tree, only muscle memory needed to reach the top; a view so great for such young eyes.

I remember the scent of my mom’s perfume as she rushes to get her shoes on, gently landing a kiss on the cheeks of my sisters and me before the clacking of her heels fades as she walks out the door. 

I remember the tough calluses on the palms of my hands and my feet dangling above the woodchips as I proudly swing across the monkey bars.

I remember learning the hard lesson that friendships can slowly fade; growing older involves people gradually coming and going. 

I remember the feeling of my innocent fingertips gracefully gliding up and down the piano keys, repeatedly rehearsing a new recital piece. 

I remember boat rides with my Grandpa, the warm breeze running through his thin gray hair as the boat speeds up and his smile grows. 

I remember cardboard moving boxes and packaging tape, mentally taking the best memories with us along with material possessions, but sadly leaving some memories behind.

I remember the freedom I felt, keys and shiny new license in hand, grasping the steering wheel, finally getting a glimpse of independence. 

I remember coming home to see my mom’s tearful eyes looking back at me, tongue-tied, worried, trying to put on a mask of strength, but there’s only bad news to tell, once again. 

I remember lying on my back, in awe of the clear dark sky above me, illuminated by the big dipper and its surrounding constellations. A shooting star was followed by silhouettes of pointed fingers and exclamations echoing over the crickets chirping in the tall, still grass.