A mushroom?

Of all the images of my childhood implanted in my memories, why a mushroom?

Why not the playgrounds where we’d swing and slide for hours and days on end?

Or the days at the beach that seemed at once like they’d never end but be gone in the blink of an eye.

The days I’d spend with my Mom doing puzzles or coloring in.

Playing Tic Tac Toe or Hopscotch with the kids next door.

Riding my bicycle too fast down the hill

We would dance in the mirror singing into a hair brush while records played with my best friend.

What was it about this Mushroom that took me back?

As I trawl through my mind looking for clues I can think of nothing but the woods behind our house.

It was in the woods where the needles from the evergreens would lay a soft carpet on the ground.

Where bugs would scamper and yes, a mushroom would grow.

This place means something too me.

Seeing this red capped stem takes me to a place of fairy tales.

I could imagine a frog in a top hat complete with his umbrella and pocket watch informing me that I was late, late for what? Who knows?.

The first time I saw one of the “mushrooms” I almost couldn’t believe that it was real. I thought they were only like that in an illustrators imagination.

These woods where they grew were mostly dark, excepting the shards of sunlight that barged their way through.

I felt safe but adventurous all at the same time, like we were a million miles from home even though we were practically next door.

We imagined mysterious creatures, escaped villains, hidden treasures and even Big Foot.

It was our first taste of real freedom, not too scared to feel scared.

A lesson I’m glad I learnt.