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They say childhood is the purest time of life. A pocket of warmth before the world shows its teeth. I didn't know what that meant back then. I just lived it.
We weren't rich. We weren't poor either. Just somewhere in between—a home with scuffed walls, a front yard filled with weeds, and laughter that echoed through our small rooms.
I was the kind of kid who collected rocks because I thought some of them might be magic. I had a red shoebox under my bed with twenty-seven stones, each named and sorted by shape. Jamie helped me name them. She liked the ones that sparkled.
We went to Ridgebrook Elementary, where the chalkboards were never fully clean, and the lunch lady knew everyone by name. My backpack had a busted zipper and was covered in cartoon pins and fading whiteout scribbles. It didn't matter. It was mine.
Every weekday started with my mom yelling, "Shoes, Rhysho! Shoes before cereal!"
I never listened.
School was a big deal. Not because I loved learning—but because that's where everything happened. Tag during recess. Trading erasers shaped like animals. Whispered dares behind textbooks. Jamie would always beat me in spelling bees. Jayden once accidentally swallowed a marble in class and became a legend.
I hated math. I mean, really hated it. The numbers always felt like they were running from me. But I loved reading. I'd devour every book I could. My favorites were the ones about dragons, lost kingdoms, secret tunnels beneath ordinary towns.
We had a small chapel on campus. Every Thursday morning, the whole school lined up and filed into that quiet, echoing space. Sunlight would pour through the stained-glass windows, and I'd stare at the patterns more than I listened to the pastor. But still—I liked being there. I didn't understand the sermons, not really. But I liked the silence. The way it felt like someone was listening when I thought really hard.
Sometimes, after service, I'd whisper into my own hands and imagine my words floating up into the ceiling. I don't know what I expected, but it felt good.
At home, Sundays were slower. Mom made pancakes when she wasn't working. Sometimes she was too tired, so I'd pour cereal and try not to spill milk everywhere. I liked cartoons and hated commercials. I liked warm laundry and fresh notebooks.
I remember birthday parties in the backyard—balloons tied to rusty chairs, homemade cake that leaned sideways, Mikey crying because he didn't win pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. I remember riding bikes down cracked sidewalks, pretending we were on escape missions. I remember catching fireflies in jars and letting them go just to see if they'd come back.
That was childhood.
Real. Honest. Messy. Beautiful.
No shadows. No silence. Just light.
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[CONTINUES...]