As a child my favorite thing in the world was to go camping. The whole aspect of it just seemed to be an adventure waiting to be sought out and I loved it. To make your own hiking trails, maybe get lost in your imagination and pick up a big stick on the way to use it for a sword or a wand or even a companion. Jumping from rock to root to patch of moss in your brothers old hiking boots, feeling as carefree as you have ever been. Finding butterflies and rollie pollies and beetles to be the subjects of your court while you search for dandelions and daisies or any wildflower to make crowns with for your queen. Which, as luck would have it, happens to be the same stick as your sword and magical wand. She serves many purposes.
Running back to the camp ground when your mother calls after you that it's getting dark. Roasting, or more like burning, marshmallows and making smores out of the charred, gooey, fluff. Your dad asked you if you wanted him to cook them for you. Obviously you said no because your brothers where making them black as well and at seven your older brothers seemed to have everything together and know everything. Besides, these sticky goodies were the best things you have ever tasted, and you eat three more.
When it gets pitch black and you look around the fire to see the soft glow of your family's smiling faces. Even as a child I remember just feeling so much happiness in that moment. A single piece of ash raised from the hot coals and flew into the deep darkness, scattering into a dozen single pieces. This is my memory of happiness, my memory of being free and being loved.
This is my most fond childhood memory.
Thanks to 
