The Floor is Lava

The three chose their steps with almost no caution whatsoever. They didn't bother to first test the volcanic rocks tentatively before trusting them with their weight. One missed jump surely meant plunging deep into the fiery abyss below, a hellish brew of molten lava straight from the core of the earth. They didn't seem to mind.

A single slip-up did not mean a slow, painful death - it meant laughter and giddiness. A new round of jumping about the rocks and avoiding the lava followed. They were living the lightheartedness of childhood.

They made fantastic worlds for themselves, forming realities that made the day-by-day of childhood worth living. The living room, as such, was a volcano, where the couches were used to avoid the carpeted, not-so-threatening, molten lava floor. We've all played the game. Mom and dad's bed was a vessel of pirates lost at sea, and in the backyard was the castle of cardboard fit for a cardboard king and queen. 

All day they would go about yelling and screaming throughout the house, giving headaches to mom and dad who shook their heads and smiled at each other wistfully. The eldest child stopped playing eventually, when age told him that he was too mature for such games. The two youngest continued to play for some time, but it wasn't what it once was. So they played less often, until the molten lava cooled, and the authenticity of the feeling was no longer present.  

When the children grew up, parted ways, and faced the realities of struggle and worry, they nevertheless kept the memory of the lava floor, knowing sagaciously enough to let the spirit of innocence reside in their hearts forevermore.