As a matter of fact, childhood offers some of the purest moments of joy experienced by an individual. Whether it was twelve, twenty, or even fifty years ago, these memories from the early stages of our understanding continue to follow us, refusing to vanish into the darkness.

In this story, childhood memories should be regarded as brief sequences of absolute emotion, undisturbed by the chaos we become familiar with as adults. Take, for example, the very experiences Marcel Proust describes in In Search of Lost Time—simple yet profoundly influential in shaping the author as an adult. Such memories can be tied to a certain scent we once smelled, the color and texture of an object we held in our hands, a taste that still lingers in our sensory memory, or even a particular time of day we remember so well.

As an urban girl, my fondest childhood memories come from my grandparents’ farmhouse, where my cousins and I spent most of our summers. It was there that I learned to cherish simple yet meaningful things—the deep breath of fresh air, the magnificent view of the Milky Way, unhindered by the artificial lights of the city, the vivid colors of everything around me, the exhilarating scent of wet earth and freshly cut grass, and the graceful chirping of birds.

One particular memory intruded upon my thoughts recently while eating a tomato sprinkled with a bit of salt—it transported me back to the hill where my grandparents had their orchard and vegetable garden. Our grandfather would take us there, riding on his wooden horse-drawn carriage. He would cut grass to bring back for the three cows they proudly owned, while my cousin and I spent our time searching for ripe fruits—especially honey-sweet mulberries, black cherries, and wild strawberries.

If we stayed longer, our grandfather would bring bread, cheese, and salt. Then, at midday, all work would pause, and we would sit down to eat, enjoying what the garden provided at that time of the year—onions and tomatoes. To this day, in my mind, that remains the best lunch one could ever have.

There, sitting on the grass, I would first wash the tomato with the spring water we had collected on our way to ‘grandparents’ hill,’ take a small bite before carefully sprinkling it with a pinch of salt, and savor its fabulous, salty-sweet taste.

Now, after so many years, the memory of that joy is accompanied by deep pain—the pain of transience and the realization that, no matter what, I can never relive that moment exactly as it was. Yet, I know for certain that these childhood memories will stay with me until death—so vivid and powerful they are.

Image credits: Eva Bronzini