Intertwined Mishaps

I wish I could be three again. Where throwing rocks into the murky water of the Kankakee River was prime entertainment and candy bubbles tasted good to a sugar hungry child's mouth. I wish I could return to the days where I collected baby turtles from the rock covered road to save them from getting hit by the occasional pickup truck or tractor. Or when we pretended leprochauns lived in the run down shack and let our imaginations get the best of us. When my biggest worries were a sore throat or falling off of my hand-me-down bicycle. I miss the bonfires, cuddled on top of my grandma's lap, my flame licked face laying softly on her bosom as she rocked me humming in a beautiful tone. I miss climbing trees and scabby knees and the bunk bed where my sister and I talked for hours on end until one of us eventually nodded off. I miss the Berenstein Bears, the soothing tone of my mother's voice reading to me and promising to check up on me before going to sleep. I miss crawling into my parent's bed, to find comfort and protection awaiting me. But the thing I miss most of all is the innocence every child has. The hunger for knowledge but a simple ignorance of the happenings of the world. No bills, no worries about oil or war, or rising food prices, or finding shelter. All that my little mind was concerned about was keeping active, while now, I'm reluctant to move from the comfort of my sofa. I wish I could just crawl into the bottom bunk, surround myself with my stuffed animals, and drift away to the sound of my grandma's humming.