Not enough things are made out of bamboo. Not useful things, anyway. So we set out for one of the many childhood fairylands we had moved out of our parents’ houses to find.

Lucky us that childhood friendships are not bound by age.

Lucky us that you never really lose your chance at the best things.

A small patch of bamboo left to the slightest inattention is already well on its way to becoming a forest capable of engulfing two wondering children in an ocean of whispering leaves and creaking stems. It offered us flutes and whistles and hollow sticks that made a very satisfying clack when hit together. To others the forest offered boats or swords or cloth or magic wands. What few trees persevered were wrapped in vines of wisteria thicker than my thigh.

Lucky us, this lushness, this generosity, this embarrassment of riches. Lucky us, this ground to grow and flourish.

Lucky us, this new chance. We didn’t know each other the first time we were children.

Lucky us, children, like bamboo, can become anything.