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Writer's pictureAanya Srivastava

When the Grass Was Greener


We were smaller then,

when days stretched long and sunlit,

and the world seemed infinite

beneath the shade of maple trees.

Our knees were always scraped,

but we never felt the sting

for too long—

healing was as simple as a laugh

or a distraction,

something fleeting,

like catching fireflies in jars

we never meant to keep.


I still hear echoes

of our voices in the empty fields

we used to fill with dreams,

before we learned

how fragile they were.

The grass was always greener

and the sky,

closer.


Now, those summers live only in fragments,

a worn-out photograph at the bottom of a drawer,

the scent of rain on pavement

that brings back a memory

I can’t fully grasp.

And maybe that’s the way it’s meant to be—

untouched,

unspoiled by knowing

what we couldn’t see then.


We were always running,

toward or away from something,

but now I find myself walking back

to those places,

knowing I can never really return.

Still,

sometimes I catch myself

pausing—

just to listen for the laughter

we left behind.


Written: 2024

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