a younger girl's bedroom window

One day this bright plain view from my bedroom window will leave me feeling incomplete. I will come to my parents house for the weekend, and that is how I'll refer to it, their house, not home, and I'll sit here. My feet will push on the windowsill and maybe then the windowsill will push back against this misshapen stranger. I will look out and for the first time realise that there are blank spaces between the houses, where I could have sworn there were trees I had once longed to climb but as I am documenting right now there are not. I will for the first time realise that the hill isn't very steep and I could have sworn it used to feel like a mountain but as I am documenting right now it has always been a gentle slope, coaxing me down on my scooter and then on my bike and then on my skateboard and finally in my car that does not care for it's mighty gradient. I could have sworn a thousand little differences but as I am documenting right now the house and the view will not be the things that change. I will perhaps for the first time notice how the compost bins look a bit like Daleks and I will congratulate myself on this nugget of childlike inspiration I have kept with me, forgetting that I noticed that same thing when I was 7 and childlike was my whole being. I will perhaps remember the parakeets that made their yearly migration back here, more loyal to this garden than me, who will likely live across the globe and return increasingly infrequently. I will perhaps fail to realise how their vibrant green has faded slightly since I was a child. I will feel dizzy and incomplete at the realisation that I am no longer a part of this place that is all too happy without me.