Death

Childhood Memories.

Photo by Rodion Kutsaiev on Unsplash

The first time I died knowingly, I was seven years old. I was sitting in my room, in my hideaway, with the back against the cold radiator, my usual place. The others were playing in the garden. It was summer. And it was hot out there. My back was leaning against the cool radiator. And I pretended to read. The book in my hands protected me from being abruptly disturbed in my daydream.