the grass is always greener

I was a wanderer as far back as I can remember. One of my earliest memories is of me begging my mom to let me cross the street on my own. I convinced her I could remember to look both ways before crossing, and then I was free. Once I had the freedom to cross the street on my own, I would have no boundaries. I was 4 years old. I loved wandering down the street to the creek. I would wade in the cold water, hunt for rocks, and watch for minnows. For hours, I would pick violets and dandelions in the open field next to the creek. I wished I could reach the blossoms on the crab apple trees and pick them too for my bouquets, but they were huge trees (to me) and the lowest branches were several feet higher than my outstretched hands; they made a beautiful canopy above me. This peaceful place was one long block away from my house, and the open field next to it lead up to a busier street. Across that street was a winding gravel road that led out into the country. Someday I would wander down that gravel road. For now, I was still content to just visit the crab apple trees and play in the creek and pick flowers. It felt like the perfect place and so far from home.