We walked along the small terrace of grass, the blinding heat of the sun forgotten in our conversation. The road which we walked parallel to was a few meters below us, and we were careful not to push each other down the embankment. It was summer, so the flies and mosquitoes serenaded us with their streaming wings, yet never came close enough to be caught or swatted away. The two of us approached our favourite part of our journey home. The mulberry tree. The summer had treated it well. It was still bearing its fruit even this late into the summer, though there were fewer than the day before. 

 

As we talked and laughed together, we picked a few berries. He was already taller than me and helped me by jumping to grab branches and pull them down so I could pick the dark ones which stained our hands like blood. The sun, caught in dappled shadows between the leaves, illuminated my face. As if from another person's perspective I heard my laughter, felt my joy rippling through the air in waves. We were only fifteen, and yet at that moment I realised that maybe I had already lost my childhood, for I had never felt as happy as I had in that moment, never had I felt as at peace and carefree.  

 

Maybe that is why I keep my memory. It is because it was one last moment of childhood before I left it behind. A lesson to take what you can before you have to leave it.