A few days ago, I stumbled upon a staircase bathed in bougainvillea petals, and a bougainvillea tree standing tall above it, and in an instant, time folded in on itself. I was no longer in the present. I was back in the ’90s—a child with scraped knees, a heart full of wonder, and summers that stretched endlessly before me.
Bougainvillea trees were everywhere back then, climbing over walls, embracing old gates, turning the most ordinary places into something vibrant. I remember looking up at them, mesmerized by how effortlessly they flourished, how they never seemed to wither under the harsh summer sun. And in some way, I think we were just like them as children, untouched by the weight of time, growing freely in the warmth of long afternoons. And I can still feel the warmth beneath my feet from running up similar steps barefoot.
There is something about nostalgia that feels almost like a dream. The world back then wasn’t rushed; joy wasn’t something we pursued, it was something we stumbled into effortlessly.
The bougainvillea petals, scattered like nature’s confetti, were once fairy dust in our tiny hands. We didn’t question why it felt magical—we just knew that it did. It makes me wonder: At what point do we stop seeing magic in the ordinary?
As we grow, our minds learn to categorize, to rationalize, to leave behind what no longer serves a purpose. But maybe, in doing so, we also leave behind the parts of ourselves that knew how to be fully present. That knew how to run up stairs just for the thrill of it, to gather petals just because they were beautiful, to let the sun kiss our skin without worrying about the ticking clock.
So here’s to slowing down. To finding joy in the little things. And to letting ourselves, every once in a while, step back into the soft glow of childhood summers.
PS: Posting the entire picture below so you, too, can pause for a few seconds and feel it. Feel the warmth, the stillness, the quiet magic of a summer day that lingers, even years later.
