There was once a boy who lived in his grandparents’ house. He was a very smart, artistic and playful young fellow. His grandparents are very proud of him. Their walls are the little boy’s canvass. He would draw tons of artworks on them.  Artworks of a different form.  He would start drawing various kinds of mighty heroes to scary monsters. The boy would then pose of victory after creating his artworks. His proud artworks.

His parents would always scold him. Scold him to his core because he always sullies the clean wall of his grandparents’ house. What the boy thinks of art is garbage in his parents’ eyes. Those times, the boy did not understand. Why his creations do not make them proud. Why only his grandparents would be very glad. Glad to draw with him. From chickens to carabaos and all kinds of animals. But his parents could not do the same. He never did understand how his parents think.

The boy’s heart was very far. His heart is far away from the people who gave birth to him. There was never a time that the boy would be very excited to see them. Every time his parents come to visit, this boy would run off to his grandfather and hide. Hide, because he doesn’t know them. He doesn’t know who his parents were. He doesn’t know their heart.

There were times that the boy would be in his parents’ house with his siblings. Siblings he doesn’t go along with. All the time, they would fight. Fight about nonsense things and the boy would run off back to his grandparents’ house. His grandparents would then comfort him. Tell him cool stories about fishing and stuff. Though he doesn’t understand, he would then calm down. Then the grandfather would carry the boy in his back. He would run any direction the boy points until they both get tired.

Oh, those days are gone. Where we only worry about very little things. Just being happy with everything, being upset with the smallest things. Where everything we see is very nice and that grown-up stuff is just trivial things. Everything is simple back then. No one to bother us but ourselves.

How we wish we could just turn back time and cherish those sweet little moments that we thought were the best. Just feeling the breeze of the wind, the sweet kiss of the sun, the dirt in our face, the mud in our hands. Then again, we don’t have that power, to turn what has passed. Sweet are the days that we can no longer have. They’re now just memories of the sweet child