i do not miss it. i do not miss my mother’s milk. i do not miss the childhood i imagined i would have. perhaps childhood is not disappointing because we never really had much time to imagine it before it happens, we only have barely enough time to imagine it while it happens - and we moonlight as adults - in our spare moments and with our spare change (sparely changing) we vivify out future - we paint it on the small window just behind our forehead (during dinner while everyone else is talking and nobody realizes you are alone) there you sit and imagine the dinners you will make and have on your own - and one day you are making and having dinner on your own and you remember your now nostalgice future and you weep into the spaghetti sauce as it sends its aroma into your eyes. why are you leaning over the sauce like this. the way you stir the sauce changes, the way you would normally set down the spoon, the way you put away the leftovers, the way you brush your teeth, you end up sitting on the toilet a little longer before bed, you linger between the first and the second sock coming off and in bed your eyes are open instead of closed and you’re wondering when you started closing the window at night - who taught you to lock the doors at night or did you just come to that conclusion on your own and why is that a conclusion at all. what else am i missing.