I appreciate this prompt because it feels particularly relevant at the moment. I hadn’t thought much about my childhood possessions until recently, as I prepare to permanently leave my home country. I’m usually the type to leave without looking back, avoiding nostalgia whenever I can—especially about my childhood.
But naturally, the idea of leaving the country that bore and shaped me has made me reflect on what I’m leaving behind. In those moments, the only childhood memories that come to mind with any fondness are tied to my books. They were my solace as a lonely child.
There’s one nursery rhyme book I was particularly fond of. Thankfully, it still exists (as you’ve seen). I hadn’t laid eyes on it in maybe 18 years, but there it was, tucked away among my family’s old things. The nostalgia that flooded me when I opened it was overwhelming.
I remember being captivated by the ink drawings and the soft, warm watercolours. Something about the children being on their own resonated with me too.
The words of the rhymes themselves were a bit of a mystery to me (Ring around the rosie / A pocketful of posies / Ashes, ashes / We all fall down), but I loved reading and looking at them all the same. Even now, anytime I hear or read a nursery rhyme, a specific page from that book flashes in my mind.
Out of everything from my youth, this book is the only thing that remains with me. Reflecting on that time—the countless hours I spent poring over the illustrations, covering my walls with my own drawings—I catch a glimpse of my old, true self. I’ve long struggled with self-doubt, fears of not being creative enough, and the anxiety over simply creating. But these memories offer me a small comfort. As I step into a new chapter of my life, I hold onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, I’ll find that part of myself again.
Dear Void 
Leave a comment