Our little holiday has almost ended. I'm on the plane back home to Warwick now (unknowingly, Warwick has already become a "home" to me now). I'm sitting by the window; We're flying above the clouds. It's slightly refreshing to see the clouds from this side. How many times have we looked up from below and wondered about the boisterous bouquet of white fluff with its different shapes and patterns? From above though, the white bouquet is tinged with the orange glow from the setting sun, and the shapes and patterns all seem somewhat... smaller. Less majestic, because it feels as if you can just reach out and touch them. Is this how life is like as well? You're less dazzled by what's within your grasp but infinitely awed by what's beyond your reach?

There's this little boy with big, baby blues in the seat directly in front of me. I learn that his name is Jake, he's three years old and he converses fluently in both French and English. Every once in a while, his little stubby left hand would creep around his seat towards me, waiting for me to touch it teasingly, before he snatches his hand away, squealing as he does it. Again and again we play the exact same game, yet astonishingly, his squeals are no less delightful each time. His right hand is coming around the seat now. I touch it. His squeals rise another notch higher. He smiles. He laughes. I think the kids have got it right. Simple contentment with the little things in life. Where's the kid in every one of us?