Young Writers Society

I remember when you were small.

You barely reached your mother's knees on that first day I saw you.

You ran about the yard, enjoying the freedom, but then you stopped by me. And you looked at me. With that twinkle of curiosity and wonder in your eye, I couldn't help but feel happy. It was obvious, wasn't it? The way I shook - trembled, with excitement. I was so happy to meet you.

You had gotten bigger.

You were still small, but you'd learned to speak. And you asked your mother - very politely - if you were allowed to climb me. I was ecstatic; I was worried. I am not the easiest to climb. Though my limbs are strong, they are far apart, and you, with your own stubby arms and legs could never hope to save yourself if you were to fall.

Your mother said no, and I was glad she was a responsible mother.

I would have been devastated if anything happened to you.

Once more, you had gotten bigger.

Your face looked sharper then, yet still so youthful and bright. Your parents came outside and hung a colourful string ladder off of one of my limbs.

You didn't ask permission, but I didn't mind.

The joy I saw on your face was enough for me.

You stopped coming outside as often.

You seemed to be away from home for most of the day, then. I had heard from the pigeons that chatted upon me about "school" and "classes". I did not know what that was, but I still hoped that you were enjoying your time there.

Perhaps a month later, you brought more small humans with you; all about the same height, all with the same bright, smiling faces. You had made friends! I was overjoyed.

It took a while, but you stopped coming outside nearly altogether.

You did still come visit, every once in a blue moon, but nowhere near as often as before. I wasn't mad. I wasn't sad, either. It was fine with me. I was simply grateful I knew you. Grateful that I could watch you grow.

I was grateful that you still visited, once in a while.

One day, you hit me.

You hit me hard. As hard as you could. I felt it. I was hurt.

Not physically, but rather because you were going through something that made you hit me. I was sad I could not comfort you. The most I could do was act as a seat for you as you cried.

You felt it, right? My sympathy for you. It was there. I hope you knew.

I truly hope you knew.

You were about the size of your mother, then, yet still with that youthful glaze.

You were busier then; I could tell. The time between visits was long, and yet each time I saw you, you looked to me more and more certain of yourself. You had a certain grace to you, a certain spring to your step that I never forgot. There was still that wonder in your eye, whenever my flowers would bloom, and you still looked at me in a way that reminded me of how you did back then.

Back when you were barely as tall as your mother's knees.

It's been years since you last came outside to visit.

I'm certain you are very busy. You're almost as busy as your mother was, all those years ago. I do hope you're doing well. I couldn't bear to see you in pain once more. If only I could communicate with you.

If only I could speak.

One day, you brought out the string ladder once more.

You hung it on me once again, and for a moment, I had a sense of deja vu. But I am confused. Surely you do not need the ladder to climb me? What could you possibly-

Ah. I understand. I completely understand.

I am filled with joy.

To see your own little ones run out, the same size as you once were, running out of the house with that same, bright smile adorning their faces. The same twinkle of wonder and curiosity in their eyes, just the same as yours once were. And as you look fondly at me and smile, I realise.

I'm so happy.

I truly, truly am.