"We used to have such happy times together, before we were grown up."

This is a quote from a book I'm reading--The Lost Summer of Loisa May Alcott. The author quotes Alcott at the beginning of each chapter. This quote dug into me like a sliver. I've been thinking along these lines for several years now. There is such a sadness that comes with adulthood. Friendships dissipate. Magic disappears. An awareness of the awfulness of some people rises, but at the same time, so does an empathetic realization that awful people had awful things done to them, that they are complex, hurting, problematic, confused people. So I can't even hate the subjects of my disgust. People fight. Love fades. Spouses cheat and justify and defend themselves. Children suffer and learn and incorporate the imperfections of their elders.

There was a time when I played in a willow patch. We hewed out hallways and rooms with machetes. Our ceiling was the sky, and leafy stalks were our walls.

Now that willow patch is mostly dead and dry. The stalks seem so finite, and not at all encompassing.