Chapter 1
Chapter 1
The author recalls a childhood memory of playing with soil on the corner of their house with friends, feeling a sense of peace and happiness like water from a mountain, surrounded by joy. The chapter ends with the friends running off together.
I remember time when I playing with my friends on the corner of our house with soil. The memory comes to me not as a photograph, but as a feeling—a warmth that rises from somewhere deep inside, a quiet hum that says, this was a good time. I can see us there, a small group of children, our hands buried in the earth that was always cool and damp, even under the afternoon sun. The soil was not just dirt to us; it was something alive, something that held secrets. It felt like a sprite of water falling out from a mountain, a tiny cascade that represents peace and happiness among the people. I cannot explain it better than that. When I think of those moments, I feel the same lightness, the same freedom, as if I am that child again, with nothing to worry about but the next handful of earth.
We would gather on the corner of our house, where the ground was bare and the grass had given up trying to grow. The soil there was special—dark and rich, with tiny pebbles that we would pick out and line up in patterns. There was no plan, no game we were trying to win. We just sat, or sometimes knelt, and let the earth run through our fingers. The sound around us was joy. Not a single sound, but a chorus of laughter, of voices calling out, of the rustle of our clothes as we moved. The air smelled of dust and sun, and something green from the garden nearby. But mostly, it smelled of joy. I cannot separate the smell from the feeling; they are the same thing in my memory.
There were four of us that day, I think. Maybe five. I remember their faces, though I cannot recall their names now. We were all from the neighborhood, children whose parents knew each other, who let us roam freely as long as we stayed close to home. The corner of our house was our spot. It was where the fence met the wall, creating a little nook that felt like our own secret place. From there, we could see the street and the houses across, but we were hidden enough that the adults did not bother us. We were invisible, in the best way.
I remember how the soil felt in my hands. It was cool at first, a shock against my warm skin. Then it became familiar, like an old friend. I would scoop it up and let it fall slowly, watching the grains tumble and land in a small pile. Sometimes I would press it into a ball, feeling it hold together for a moment before crumbling again. It reminded me of the stream that ran behind the mountain, the way the water would dance over the rocks, always moving, always changing. That is what the soil felt like—a sprite of water, elusive and full of life. It was not just dirt; it was a piece of the world that we could hold, a piece that made us feel connected to everything around us.
My friends were doing the same thing, each lost in their own world but together in ours. One of them, a boy with a red shirt, was building a small mound, patting it carefully with his palm. Another, a girl with braids, was drawing lines in the earth with a stick. I watched her for a moment, the way her tongue poked out in concentration. She was making a map, she said, of the places we would go. And we believed her, because in that corner, with the soil beneath us, we could go anywhere.
The sun was warm, but not too hot. It cast long shadows that crept across the ground as the afternoon wore on. I remember the light, golden and soft, making everything look like a dream. There was a breeze, just a whisper, that carried the sound of a dog barking somewhere down the street. None of us paid it any attention. We were too focused on the soil, on the joy that filled the air like music.
Then something happened. I do not remember what started it—perhaps someone shouted, or we heard a call from a parent, or maybe we just felt the urge to move. But in that moment, the peace shifted into energy. We all looked up at each other, and without a word, we knew what to do. We all run out to... to somewhere. The corner of our house was behind us, the soil still warm from our hands, and we were running. I felt my legs pumping, the ground hard beneath my feet, the wind in my hair. Laughter burst out of me, not because anything was funny, but because I was alive, and I was with my friends, and the world was wide open.
I can still feel that run in my bones. The way my heart pounded, not from fear, but from excitement. The way the houses blurred past, the familiar landmarks—the big tree, the blue gate, the cracked pavement—all becoming part of a race that had no finish line. We were running toward something, though I cannot say what. Maybe we were running toward the next moment, the next adventure, the next handful of soil. Or maybe we were just running because we could.
The joy from the corner of our house followed us. It was in our breath, in the rhythm of our steps, in the shouts that echoed between the walls. We were a pack of children, wild and free, and the world was ours.
I do not know where we ended up that day. The memory fades after that run, like a dream that slips away upon waking. But the feeling remains. The peace and happiness from the soil, the sprite of water from the mountain, the joy that surrounded us—it is all still there, buried somewhere in my heart. When I think of my childhood, I return to that corner, to the feel of the earth in my hands, and I am grateful. Grateful for the simplicity, for the friends, for the moment that taught me what happiness really is.
And so I hold onto that memory, as fragile as a grain of soil, as powerful as a mountain stream. It is my story, and it begins here, in the dirt, with a group of children who had no idea they were making a memory that would last a lifetime.