f a d i n g

I've watched you grow up. You used to be so small. Remember that? Remember when we used to go running through the giant oak trees in your back yard, the ones that would drop millions of acorns? Your mom would give you a quarter for every bucket you filled with acorns. We'd start to fill as many as we could, but then you got distracted and tried to make a fort out of leaves, and when you'd get frustrated that it wasn't working the  way you wanted it to, we jumped and stomped through the pile, spreading the leaves and more acorns through the yard.

Remember how stormy it used to get in the summers, and how you were terrified of the thunder? You used to dive under your blankets whenever the lightning would flash, squishing your ears and your eyes so that the only thing you could sense was me. I'd keep you company on those long, loud nights when you couldn't sleep. 

And when you stayed up so late doing homework every night in high school? I tried to get you back, tried to distract you from that boring stuff so we could have fun again. It'd been so long since we'd done anything fun like we used to. I was starting to forget. You must have, too.

You stopped listening to me. You started taking something to "help your focus", to tune me out. You only caught glimpses of me when you hadn't slept for days, or when you had too much caffeine. Even then, I don't think you recognized me. 

You've gotten so big now. You're doing something important, I guess. Too important to have fun with me anymore. Too important to remember. 

I remember when I used to be important.