RDP Wednesday: Apricate
In response to Ragtagdailyprompt
There once was a child who believed warmth came only from fire, blankets, and the sun. Each winter, the child searched for heat in thicker clothes and brighter rooms, yet still felt cold. One evening, an old man smiled and said,
“Some warmth does not come from flames. It comes from remembering where you once apricated.”
The child did not understand then.
But years later, I do.
My understanding began on a farm in Shimla, where my grandparents lived a life stitched together by soil, animals, and sky. Days there unfolded gently, without urgency.
Mornings welcomed us with the soft language of farm animals and the smell of earth waking up. We followed Grandpa through the fields, feeding cows, laughing as goats trailed behind us like mischievous shadows. We ate fruit straight from the trees, ripe, juicy, warm from the sun, and worked without complaint because work there felt like play.
By afternoon, the river called us. We ran toward it with cousins, fearlessly diving into its cold embrace. Floating on our backs, we let the sun dry us, not knowing we were apricating, absorbing a warmth that would later outlive the moment itself.
Trees became our resting place. We climbed high and sat there for hours, listening to birds converse in languages only the forest knew. From those branches, we spoke about home, about parents, about how life might look when we grew up. There was no rush to become anything. Just the safety of being.
Some evenings, Grandpa led us toward the distant hills. We hiked until the farm lights disappeared, then camped under a sky scattered with stars. He pointed out constellations, but also taught us something quieter, that life was vast, yet kind. Wrapped in that silence, we felt small and complete all at once.
Between it all were games of hide and seek in tall grass, hands stained from fruit picking, and the unmistakable comfort of Grandma’s muffins, golden, warm, waiting. Her kitchen was its own kind of hearth.
Now, on cold winter nights, when the world feels louder and life moves faster than the heart can keep up with, I return there. I do not go by road or map. I go by memory. I sit quietly and apricate, not in sunlight, but in the warmth of moments that once held me whole.
The farm still breathes inside me. Grandpa’s voice still points out stars. Grandma’s kitchen still smells of comfort. And the child I once was still sits on a tree branch, listening to birds, believing time is endless.
Nothing can beat those memories, because they did not fade. They became my refuge.
They became my warmth.
And perhaps that is what growing up truly means – learning that when the world turns cold, we survive by remembering where we once learned to be warm.
Some memories are not meant to be recalled, they are meant to be apricated.
© Rohini 2009–2025.
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Pieces Of My Heart 