We Carry Our Childhood Into Adulthood
We carry it
not because we choose to—
but because the body keeps its archives,
and the mind, its quiet drawers.
A laugh that once saved us,
a silence that once harmed us—
they follow like old weather,
patterns the sky has not forgotten.
We bring it
because the child never truly leaves.
They sit within the ribcage,
knees drawn up,
listening for familiar storms.
We bring it
because love learned early
etches itself deep,
and fear twice as deep.
Both wait for the world
to rhyme with their memory.
We bring it
so that the adult may meet the child
in the long corridor of years—
not to scold,
but to hold,
to say,
You survived. I’m here now.
And when that meeting happens,
the past loosens its grip—
not vanished,
but finally understood.
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