I grieve my childhood in bits and pieces.  It comes in flashbacks — at the sight of a beaten-up Harry Potter paperback. Or when I see an eight-year-old laugh or mock or sulk, remembering how it felt to be eight, beginning to grapple with the fact that everyone eventually dies from old age, yet age remained an unattainable construct. Old age was something that could never happen to me, at eight. (In a way, twenty-one is… View Post