When I'm Small

By Peter Bowden

 


When I’m small, the world towers above me like a cathedral made of trees and rooftops. Every step feels like discovery—cracks in the sidewalk turn into canyons, and a dandelion puff is a constellation waiting to scatter at my breath. My hands are always reaching, always collecting—stones smooth as secrets, bottle caps shining like medals, the occasional feather light enough to prove that magic drifts close to the ground.

When I’m small, time bends. A single afternoon stretches wide as a summer sky, long enough to hold adventures, scraped knees, and the smell of cut grass settling into my clothes. Shadows are longer, laughter louder, and even silence hums with the promise of something just about to happen. The world is not yet measured; it is only felt—by the thump of my heart when the streetlight flickers on, by the taste of lemonade colder than the creek, by the hush of a bedtime story spinning its spell.

When I’m small, I believe the night keeps watch. The stars wink as if they know me, and the moon seems close enough to climb. I whisper to the dark, certain it listens, certain it answers in ways too deep for grown-up ears. And as sleep gathers me, I drift into tomorrow certain of one thing: that the world is vast, but somehow, in the middle of it all, it is holding me safe.

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