I remember the morning passing by in a dull delirium.

I kept fiddling with my fingers, trying to remember what it was like to hold Papa’s hand.

When I was small, I always shied away from holding hands, especially Papa’s – his palms were always calloused and hard against mine, and they gave me a weird, ticklish feeling.

I loved holding hands with Mama. Sometimes, not even Grandma could pry me away from Mama’s apron.

I found myself wishing fervently for those times; when I was truly young, and everything within my vision seemed to be bathed in this sunlight that couldn’t be dimmed.

Every object was something new and colorful – something interesting and worth exploring.

To me, a dirty, lifeless beer cap might have been a rare jewel.

Behind every door there might have been a fantastic, mystical land full of magic and the gallant adventures I’d always dreamed of.

Naivete was one sure way to self-destruction.

No child should bury their parent.

I clenched my fist.

Time is cruel.