The worst thing about growing up is that as you get bigger, the world gets smaller. The world, and everything in it.
A few days after Christmas, I revisited the old neighborhood. My fuzzy blond head peeked up behind this white fence for the first twelve years of my life.
My chin once strained to rest on the top of the slats as my blue eyes elevated in search of the ice cream truck. It never occurred to me that all the other chins and eyes on the fence were brown. Or that most of of the treats on the truck were Mexican candy.
Now, the fence ends at my waist. Now I have no difficulty seeing over it.
The yard offered plenty of room to shoot water guns, practice soccer kicks, and shove paper balls of gunpowder down ant hills, light them and run behind a tree to wait for the victorious snap. Now, the truck I’m in rumbles past the entire ramshackle estate in less than a second.
Don’t blink or you’ll miss it. Unless you want to miss it. Then, go ahead and blink. I couldn’t decide which I wanted, so I closed one eye, squinted through the other and took this picture.
In my memories, the fence, the yard, the house — the world — all seemed so much larger. I think I liked Big World. More space for possibilities. More room to run. And back then, I didn’t know why the rich kids from church on the north side of town never wanted to come over.
The world’s smaller now. And everything in it.