Sometimes I tend to miss my childhood: the golden years of scraped knees, Lion King sing-a-longs, bubblegum flavored popsicles, extras jumbo pencils you could never really write with, monkey bars, hello kitty, and the most importantly the care free innocence I wish I still had today.

I often think about the days when all that mattered was what my best friend and I were going to do for recess; it was always a split decision between exchanging delcious gossip about our fellow classmates, or stealing the set of swings from the unfortunate souls who got the them first. Nowadays, however, a thought like that hardly comes to passing. And certainly a decision of such simplicity no longer has a valid existence in my life.

Recently, I paid a spontaneous visit to my elementary school, the place I had spent six monumental years of my childhood, and the home to some of my most memorable recollections. The last time I had been there was eight years ago when I stepped off its property for the very last time. I had thought, for a moment, that I'd feel lost and unwelcomed in what I was sure would be unfamiliar territory after nearly a decade, but walking through those still tan doors I noticed how pleasantly familiar it still all was. The shiny white tiles, the painting on the walls, and the convenient office supplies vending machine were all still there--exactly as I remembered it. I felt excited and giddy. For a moment I was twelve again with scraped knees, who loved playing on monkey bars, and eating blue colored bubble gum popsicles, until I walked back out, and I was nineteen again.

Before leaving, I left a note for my favorite teacher merely saying I came by to see her. I wanted to say more, to thank her for her encouragement, and her involvement in my life, but I didn't.