Maybe I'm still there, stretched out in a straw hat, chewing on that stalk of grass under a monkey-ball tree. (Sycamore) of course.
In the summer of my ninth year, digging the shade.
Maybe that wish I made to be an adult when all the world was a fresh baked cookie barely nibbled came true.
Maybe it's only been a few seconds since I mumbled my desires to be free of the awkwardness of childhood, the ignorance of innocence, and that ache for the girl next door.
Something much like when we sleep, how time flies by yet we are, unaware of it's passing.
Maybe all these years I carry, are but a blink away from that backyard tree and me, studying the sun-dappled weaves of straw inside the hat that covers my face, as apple pie scented breezes call me to momma's kitchen for a warm wedge of time long forgotten.
But then again, Maybe not, as a whimsical smile wrinkles, then creases this much too wise of a face, to ever play make believe again.