Kinds of Honey

If I were small again, I would crawl inside this cylinder of cement. I would imagine it led to other places. I would hide in here and make up those other places and believe in all their possibility.

Remember those days? The days of wading in streams beneath bridges, of walking through culverts, of making groves your woodland home? Imagining what would happen if you were orphaned or lost? It must be some childish attempt at understanding survival, even preparing for possible upheaval – this considering of other lives you might be living, in other realities, and how you might survive them. It was always fun. Purposeful. Imaginative. And yet with flecks of thrilling fear.