Ghosted Margins

I can hear the screams and laughter of children outside my window. Local kids gathered around to enjoy the freedom, the sun, the moment, right here.
The sunlight casts a bright, warm hue, painting the walls, turning them clean. Blue skies are vast and calling, and the air smells of something fundamentally good. 

It reminds me of lazy days in my grandmother’s garden, picking red currants from the bushes and playing in an inflatable pool — it had a giraffe-like head sticking out of it on a long, colourful neck. Holidays in Greece — warm sand beneath my feet, a pink dress bought at the local market, and pirates looking for treasure — a candy-filled chest. 

It reminds me of lying in green grass, reading a book, chasing shadows and searching for familiar shapes in the clouds, staring at the sky as if it holds truths ancient and profound.

It reminds me of climbing trees in Hampstead Heath, admiring the world from above, and wondering why people don’t do it more often. A walk down a beautiful, Varsovian alley, in good company, no hurry, no worries, just idle talk and honest smiles. 

Funny how moments so separate connect so naturally to a quiet breath on a random Monday evening in May.