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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required My younger self waits beneath the Mosikiri tree, barefoot, pockets filled with Motsentsela and impossible dreams. He smiles when he sees me, until he notices how tired my eyes have learned to be. "You made it," he says, certain that the years have been kind. I smile back, the way broken things pretend they have never fallen. He studies me with the innocence only children possess. "So...did we become the writer?" "We did." His face brightens like the first rain after a long drought. "Then you must write every day." "I don't." The smile slips quietly from his face. "Why?" "Life happened." He wrinkles his forehead, confused. "I thought life was the reason we wanted to write." I stay quiet! "Do we still watch sunsets without checking the time?" "No." "Do we still jump in it rain?" "No." "Do we still believe people mean the promises they make?" I take a long breath. "Not always." He lowers his head, drawing circles in the earth with his heel. "You've learned so many things." I nod. "But you forgot so many too." His words find every place my silence had been hiding. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out one grain of Motsentsela "Remember this?" I do. It was treasure before money taught me its own definition of value. He rolls it into my hand. "You used to think the smallest things were miracles." I close my fingers around it, afraid it might disappear like everything else I failed to hold on to. He looks at me one last time. "I don't mind that you grew older." He pauses. "I just wish you hadn't grown so far away from yourself." "What if I want to find you again?" i ask He smiles, the same smile that once believed every tomorrow was a gift. "You don't have to find me. I'm still here. I'm waiting every time for you remember who you were before the world told you who to become."
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