|| Noun ||
The swing that swung from branch to branch
The boxes stacked high which we stood on
Swords waving high; we were kings and queens
Of our own realms
But termites turned wood into dust
And our minds tore down the boxes we stood gullibly high
That swing no longer swung from child to child
Our realms were never our own after all
Now we stand with backs bent in odd shapes
What do we lose it all for?
The swords we would have waved at hurrying passerbys —
The same swords we now no longer adore
Don’t lose it. Don’t lose the part of you which clinged on so desperately hoping it won’t fall. And the 50 year olds who played like 5 year olds at the beach — those are the ones I adore.
” Once upon a time, there was a boy. He lived in a village that no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of a field that no longer exists, where everything was discovered, and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword, a pebble could be a diamond, a tree, a castle. Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a house across the field, from a girl who no longer exists. They made up a thousand games. She was queen and he was king. In the autumn light her hair shone like a crown. They collected the world in small handfuls, and when the sky grew dark, and they parted with leaves in their hair. Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering. ” – The History of Love, Nicole Krauss