The prestige of childhood:

To stand atop that small hill, grass to your knees, sun high above, wind across your cheeks, arms raised, palms high, face turned upwards, smile wide as you scream, "I am king! King of the world!"

The cows chew their cud. You are eight years old.

You take off, back home. Run, run quickly, then, down that small hill. Your feet pound into the dirt and dried manure and your arms pump at your sides. It is harder to breathe the quicker you run, and your lungs tighten against your ribcage and they beg for more air. You do not grant it. Keep running! Watch for the bent sticks that threaten your speed. Use your hands to brush the tall grass aside. You smell dirt. You smell stagnant water. You breathe through your nose and you can smell cows, tree bark, wildflowers, dandelions, entire root systems.

Hell, you can even smell the sunlight pour across the meadows.

Run wild, down the hill. And your legs might buckle with your momentum. You might jump to regain composure or you may fall, landing hard into a menagerie of an unkempt sanctuary of termites, lady bugs, snakes, wood ticks, inch worms, and one praying mantis.

And you stay awhile, examining this other world.

You bring your knees to your chest and hold your legs close and watch a rolly polly bug turned into a tight, indestructible ball when you prod it. The lady bug has four spots. The worm does not notice you as it burrows in and out of the dirt. A mosquito is on your arm. You slap it. It bursts.

It is damp here in this world, near the roots, where plants hold their moisture. The ground is still so wet despite the sunny day. You run your hand up a long stem of grass and pull the seeds from its top. They are light in your palm. You crunch them. Roll them between both your palms. Dust them away from your hands.

You're getting too itchy sitting here. It is time to leave.

You rise, once again king of this world.

You dust your butt, stretch, and run.

You begin to run just like before. Pounding the ground with your feet. Boxing the air with your fists. Breathing hard. Snot running down your nose.

Push aside the tall grass.

Sink your feet.

Pound.

Breathe, king, breathe.