In the tenth grade, I wrote about my cousin's newborn daughter. This following story illustrates best a description of myself.

A Visit

The rain droplets gracefully poured from the heavens above, to the already-wet ground, as we sat at the table. The food was magnificent, but it never mattered to you. I remember sitting across from you and seeing potatoes being thrown on the ground, along with green peas. Your placemat became a battlefield between you and your meal. You eventually won, but not without suffering some wounds, like a dirty face. Food hardly ever falls on the ground now. The floor is spectacularly clean without you walking or crawling on it.

As I look out the window in the kitchen nowadays, I can see the luminous lake and reflect back to you. When I would swim in Lake Simcoe, you had your daily nap upstairs in a closed room. The only noise ever coming from that room was the quiet breathing of a young child. Then, after your rest, we often played outside. I still can picture your tiny fingers forming a fist and punching me when I pressed my face up against the side of the tent. You also seemed to like bouncing a basketball – and later throwing the ball at my crotch.

I knew I spent too much time with you, but this bothered neither me nor you. You were just happy to flaunt your dimples like a lion displaying his mane. Your giggle still rings in my ears.

During your visit, you were my ambassador to a world much forgotten. You were a mere child free from expectations, while I was a stressed teenager with a bloodstream filled with hormones. You allowed me to experience a second childhood of playing with dolls and hide-and-go-seek. But, then you waved good-bye and all was gone.