Isn't it funny, the things that never leave you?
Like the honeysuckles, picked each summer
And sucked on as a child
And isn't it odd, the pains that you remember?
Like stepping on a twig one autumn's day
That left the slightest scratch
And isn't it strange, the words that stick forever?
Like mamma, telling you life isn't fair
While friends rode bicycles
Isn't it amazing, the children we once were?
Like looking at a photo and seeing
Someone you never knew
Author notes
Just thinking.
It's about a lot of different things.
Most obviously, the way I seem to remember the insignificant things--scraping my foot, not having a bicycle when all the other kids did.
My memories of childhood, what I remember about myself, is completely different from what I remember THINKING about myself.
Just... a lot of things.
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