It’s when I gaze at the barely visible stars in the night time sky,
and stretch all I can to touch the swing pole with my stubby fingers,
trying to reach as high as possible,
that I understand it’s still there.

It’s every time I skip a step to a made up tune,
and do a little pirouette when I turn to a song in my head,
trying to brighten up the most monotonous of walks,
that I know it’s still there.

It’s whenever I gobble a spoonful of sugar,
and snap hakuna matata to all the lemons that life throws at me,
trying to build a whole new world with a new exciting a point of view,
that I believe, slightly more, in just how far it’ll go,
reminding myself that I must never let it go.

And it’s every time I slurp up the remains of ramen,
and stare at the clouds from the window of a moving car,
that I appreciate its negligible existence.

For no matter how many years I pile on,
or the layers of social acceptance that I try to hide within,
I know that I will always love this little part of me,
the child inside that will always live.