That woody smell

My bare toes are still acquainted with the feel of the wet compact dirt even though I'm twenty instead of twelve. All the old paths to the best climbing trees are still familiar.

Showing my old haunts to the little girls as we wove through the ferns, moss, and skunk cabbage made the memories all the more potent, especially remembering the best methods for catching tadpoles and the feel of them wriggling in your hand as the water drips through your fingers.

Everything has shrunk. I remember when the stones at the bottom of the pond were big enough for my whole foot to fit on them, and when the climbing tree was a thousand feet tall and the moss was miles thick. When it was possible to get sucked under the surface of the swamp and the barking crocodile was the most terrifying creature I could have imagined..