I looked at the old swim that hung from the Cyprus tree. Moss hung from its branches, the wind rocking the freaking swing back and forth. I felt a sense of homesickness creep up from inside of me, memories flooding my brain from my childhood. The hours we spent swinging back and forth on those hot summer nights and dumbing the winter we would build small snowmen and put them on the wooden board that was covered in ice. I felt a sense of longing to go back to those days when the only worry we had was that we had school the next day.

But when I looked at the swing a sense of deep sadness fell numbly over me. It hadn’t been that long, it couldn’t have been that long. We were just swinging yesterday right? But it wasn’t true. We had grown up and every dream we had turned into nothing but a 9 to 5. When we were young we dreamed of flying to the moon in a cardboard box or diving down to live with sharks. When had we given up on them? When did we grow up and met the world steal our dreams right out from under us?