I have a place where everything is right.
Where the playground is a memory map of the first monkey bars I ever conquered and the slide that left an egg-shaped protrusion on the center of my forehead and the swings where I spotted the first boy to warm the insides of my chest.
Where the benches behind the old platane tree hold the secrets of my first kiss. And a second. And a third. And a hidden hand-holding behind the backs of our closest friends. Followed by a first break-up. A short-lived romance with an ever-longer mourning period. First loves are funny like that.
Where sickness is cured by a spoon filled with bubblegum-tasting medicine. Where my father’s arms are enough to cure the most serious bout of tears.
Where fields of wheat tickle my calves as I run away from my grandfather’s curfew. Where mountains are not what they…
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