January 31, 2025

My childhood was surrounded by pine trees. I still catch the scent of those winters when, atop a tiny hill beside my home, I collected corns for flames. As we smuggled the corns in a sack, the sunlight peaked through the gaps while the pines hid our immature bodies. I still vaguely hear the laughs as I piled the brown needles to sleep, only to walk home scratching my skin raw. Those sticky resins oozing from the dusty bark, stored in a stolen bottle. My childhood is painted in a coniferous colours of saturated emeralds and vibrant browns. In my memories, the giant giant pine trees garnished with vines embrace me as I stalked an asphalt road, holding their hands to return home.