The radiant summer we arrived in Basel, my brother and I were looking for ways to pass the time. It was the specific period in our lives where we were picking up the pieces, crossing borders, and attempting to assemble those disarranged parts into a new beginning.  With no toys in sight, my brother relied on me and I relied on him, both religiously dependent on the other to enliven an insatiable childhood spirit. Sadly enough, the house we were inhabiting felt as empty as an abandoned shell on the shore of a deserted island. The hallways in our new home were long, and stretched into the distance coldly, and the hard metallic handlebars and glacial tiles spread uninvitingly over every space, corner and edge of the building. The whole geometric feel to our new nest—maximized by the effect of no furniture—made the whole place feel too vacant and far too impersonal. The only instance of warmth it provided was derived from our own doing, and occurred from the one time I forced my brother into performing choreographed dance moves to some song being played endlessly on the radio. We had pranced energetically through the middle of our  living room, with the hopes of infusing some life into the walls— even if it was only for a split second. Still the echoing structure stood there, immobile and devoid of expression. And so the feeling of the house being a complete stranger to us only intensified; a spiritless stranger that refused to accommodate the adventure seeking monsters inside of us. Disenchanted with our castle, we started to step outside of its confinements.
We soon discovered that outside, that’s where the magic really was.
Walking out the door and going a couple of metres from where our front porch was before ascending the interminably steep and winding driveway, to the left there lay a field. This field spread further and wider than seemed humanly possible and eventually, way up into the distance, past other fields and diminute looking houses, it seemed to converge into a forest. Upon witnessing this playground of nature in its full swing, my brother and I experienced something close to a prophetic encounter. It didn’t take long for us to delve into this mystical jungle of grass, the silky shapes of green stroking the rough skin on our legs, and the faint aroma of freshly mowed Swiss grass tickling our nostrils. We explored and moved through this pasture effortlessly, absorbing every ray of sunshine the morning sky was blessing us with from above. And one day, from the middle of nowhere, somewhere in the enormity of the field, we heard little noises.
They were a series of delicate and chirpy sounds but very, very faint.
We rummaged around, inspecting the roots of the elongated grass, pushing the stems to a side trying to find the source of all this commotion. Carefully treading through the grass we soaked in our surroundings, our hearing completely on guard, our vision sharp like an eagle’s. Finally, we identified the culprits. Slender, forest green little insects, so identical to the strips of grass they sat on that if you didn’t look closely enough you could have missed them altogether. Before long we gained the notion that many of these entities were inhabiting the leaves; and that vast amounts more were presumably sprawled across the gigantic patch of pasture. It was as if we’d stumbled across another family altogether. Guided by the crinkly sounds still emerging, we reached out our restless hands and hovering over the spot where the sound came from, before they had a chance to hop away, we clamped them together. Taking a couple of nervous breaths, like children on Christmas morning, we unwrapped our sweaty palms and discovered these funny yet strangely wonderful little grasshoppers standing poised atop our flesh. 
We had invented an art.
Right off the bat we indulged in our fantastical world. We’d awaken every morning and go on a pilgrimage to our private garden, where we’d look for our earthly companions, cup our small hands expertly and invite them to spend some time with us. Taking their cold green bodies with us, we’d bring them onto our stone-porch and whisper soft absurdities to where we assumed their ears were located. Random names were arbitrarily assigned to each grasshopper and soon, almost on a subconscious level, we developed a mechanical way of interacting with these microscopic creatures. There was a non verbalized instruction manual to which both of us adhered where it stated that you had to wait long enough to try to catch one, that not all grasshoppers wanted to be caught and that after engaging with them for a while, you had to have the decency to release them back into the wilderness. The grasshoppers and their quaint doings escalated from a wondrous and fleeting discovery to a way of life. Nothing during the weeks my brother and I had been in this unfamiliar place had caught our attention as vividly as these moving leaf-sticks had because they were more than a dumb distraction, or a pointless activity to pass the time with. They were an undeniable occupation. A challenge we were all-too willing to take on. We’d spend a considerable amount of time perfecting our catching technique, hours observing the construction of their frail yet divine bodies, and above all that we’d fabricate fantasies in which the grasshoppers had families, and lived the most elaborate life a grasshopper could hope to live. And so as the days passed, our unbridled summer bliss only heightened. This little colony of living beings that on one hand were nothing short of a science experiment, were at the very same time so much more than that. Perpetually fascinated by their existence, my brother and I would escape to the glorious field where nothing kept still and everything awaited our royal return.
That all ended less than a month later, when summer faded away and we both started at our new school. Soon enough, my brother and I began to forget about the grasshoppers and found ourselves in the act of something unknown to us: starting over. Stuck in the process of growing up and experiencing life, we got the first real taste of struggle, of recklessness, of maturing and making friends and asserting our independence. Nonchalantly we exited the gates of our enchanted yet outdated fortress to venture off into the real world instead. He and I wandered in distant directions, both of us choosing to redefine ourselves as individuals; no longer as the fearsome duo we once were. The words between us gradually became more trivial, the moments duller, and everything we ever did was filled up with little distractions that enlarged the void between two former accomplices. Most of all, it was the itching sensation I felt from time to time, that by turning our backs on our little green companions, my brother and I had betrayed something dear to us. And so through the years that followed, our sacred field remained where we had left it: submerged by snow in the winter, swaying to the rhythm of the wind in the spring, and a reflection of majesty in the middle of the tireless summer.
But not once did we return.