The torrent of rain sweep memories across the roof.

I’m brought back to a one room cabin on a lonely afternoon. There is no where to go, but a screened-in porch and a maze of bunk beds. We’d play games; line the floor with dominos; jump RC cars from the kitchen onto the porch; crawl beneath the bunk beds to uncover saws and tether balls; color outside the lines; read comics and mysteries; shoot things at each other; and wrestle from bunk to bunk.

The world was so glorious then: when we were bored out of our minds, and closest to childhood.

Every so often we’d race outside, bombarded by the rain, only to retreat back to our cabin; our pirate ship; our space shuttle; our fortress; our adventure station.

Whenever I hear the rain I don’t hear droplets on the roof, instead I hear the laughter of my childhood coming back to greet me.

What reminds you of your childhood?


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About Jeremiah Dowling

I write poetry and take crazy pictures in an Orange Chair all over the United States while reading amazing books.

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