I remember summer vacations. Real ones. The kind that lasted a thousand years.
The school closed in May. September felt like it existed in another lifetime. Between those two points stretched an ocean of time so vast I couldn’t see the other shore.
What did I do with all those days? Nothing. Everything. The same thing.
I woke up without alarm clocks. The sun decided when morning began. I ate breakfast slowly because there was no bus to catch. Then I went outside and the day opened up like a flower that would never close.
Time moved like honey then. Thick. Golden. Impossible to rush.
I could spend an entire morning watching ants. Just watching them. Carrying tiny things. Building tiny cities. Going about their tiny business. This was entertainment. This was enough.
Now I check my phone forty times a day. Then, I checked nothing. There was nothing to check. The world was small and complete. The backyard was the universe.
My friend Raju lived three houses down. We didn’t call before visiting. We just showed up. Knocked on the door. “Can Raju play?” That was the entire social arrangement. No scheduling. No planning. Just showing up.
We played cricket until our arms hurt. Then we stopped. Then we played again. The score didn’t matter. Winning didn’t matter. Playing mattered. Being there mattered. The feeling of sun on skin and ball on bat and sweat running down your back—that mattered.
Afternoons were for lying down and doing nothing. Real nothing. Not scrolling-through-phone nothing. Actual, complete, perfect nothing.
I would lie on the cool floor and stare at the ceiling fan. Watch it spin. Think about nothing. Or everything. The boundary between those two was unclear. Time passed. I didn’t notice. I didn’t need to notice. There was so much of it.
Why did days feel so long then?
I’ve read explanations. Scientists say it’s about proportion. When you’re eight, one summer is a large fraction of your whole life. When you’re thirty-eight, it’s a tiny slice. The math makes sense. But it doesn’t capture the feeling.
I think it’s something else. I think it’s about attention.
Children pay attention differently. They don’t think about tomorrow while living today. They don’t plan next week while experiencing this moment. They are completely, fully, stupidly present.
The ice cream dripping down your wrist. The exact temperature of the water in the pond. The way your friend laughed when he fell off his bicycle. These things fill the entire mind. There is no room for anything else. No space for worry. No corner reserved for planning.
Adults live in three times at once. Past. Present. Future. We regret yesterday while anxious about tomorrow while barely noticing today. Our attention is split into so many pieces that none of them is big enough to hold a moment properly.
Children live in one time. Now. Only now. And because they give now their complete attention, now expands. It fills up. It becomes huge.
I remember the taste of mangoes that summer. Specifically that summer. Thirty years ago. I remember sitting under the tree, juice running down my chin, flies buzzing nearby, Raju complaining about the heat. I remember everything.
I had lunch yesterday. I don’t remember what I ate.
This is the tragedy of growing up. Not that we get older. That we stop paying attention.
Childhood summers were made of firsts. First time catching a fish. First time climbing that tree. First time staying out after dark. Firsts demand attention. Firsts burn bright in memory. Firsts make time slow down.
Adult years are made of repeats. Same breakfast. Same commute. Same meetings. Same complaints. Repeats blur together. They don’t require attention. They happen while we think about other things. And because we’re not paying attention, they vanish. Years disappear like they never happened.
I planned a vacation last month. Researched hotels. Compared prices. Made spreadsheets. By the time I finished planning, I was too tired to enjoy the trip. The planning took more energy than the vacation.
Children don’t plan vacations. They live them. They wake up and the day is already a vacation. No research required. No optimization needed. Just existence. Just presence. Just now.
My daughter is eight. I watch her sometimes. She can sit in the garden for an hour doing nothing I can identify. Just being there. Looking at things. Touching leaves. Talking to herself. Time doesn’t exist for her yet. Not really. She hasn’t learned to slice it into productive units. She hasn’t been taught that minutes are for spending wisely.
I envy her. I also pity her. Because one day, she will learn. She will start checking clocks. She will begin planning. She will discover that time is limited and must be managed.
And her summers will shrink. Like mine did. Like everyone’s do.
We trade magic for management. Wonder for efficiency. Presence for productivity. We don’t even notice the trade. It happens slowly, over years, until one day we look back and realize something precious is gone.
Can we get it back?
I don’t know. I try sometimes. I try to pay attention. To taste my food. To feel the water in the shower. To notice the color of the sky at evening.
It works for moments. Then the phone buzzes. The mind wanders. The list of tasks reasserts itself. Adult life floods back.
But sometimes, for a few seconds, time slows down. I feel what I used to feel. The honey thickness of a moment fully lived.
It never lasts. But it reminds me that the capacity is still there. Buried under years of habits and responsibilities. Covered by the silt of adulthood. But not gone. Never completely gone.
Summer still comes every year. The days are still long. The sun still sets slowly. The world still offers itself for attention.
We just forgot how to accept the offer.
My daughter calls from the garden. She wants to show me something. A caterpillar, probably. Or a flower. Or nothing at all.
I put down my phone. I go outside. I try to see what she sees.
For a moment—just a moment—summer feels like it used to.
Long. Golden. Endless.
Then the moment passes. But it was there. It existed.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all we get as adults. Moments instead of months. Glimpses instead of whole summers.
I’ll take it. It’s better than nothing.
It’s better than forgetting completely that time once moved like honey, and we had all of it, and it was ours, and we wasted it beautifully on absolutely nothing at all.