Yishun lives in my body before it lives in my mind.
In scraped knees and dusty shoes.
In the echo of void decks,
where afternoons stretch long and forgiving.
I grow up between blocks that feel enormous then,
their corridors endless,
their stairwells humming with secrets.
The lift always takes too long.
So we run.
Up. Down. Laughing.
Time feels infinite.
The air smells like rain and kopi.
Like wet grass after a sudden storm.
Playgrounds glow softly at dusk,
plastic slides warm from the day,
metal swings singing their thin, familiar song.
Parents call out names that float and disappear.
We pretend not to hear.
Yishun teaches us rhythm.
School bags dropped by the door.
Homework rushed.
Dinner eaten quickly so the night can begin.
Catching spiders near drains.
Cycling aimlessly,
learning the estate one turn at a time.
There is fear too.
Ghost stories whispered on benches.
Dark corners we dare each other to enter.
But even that feels safe somehow,
held by the steady presence of blocks that watch quietly.
As we grow older, Yishun changes shape.
New shops appear.
Old ones disappear.
But memory stays stubborn.
It clings to places that no longer exist,
to friendships that fade without ceremony.
When I return now, everything feels smaller.
Yet heavier.
Each walkway carries layers of who we were.
Childhood doesn’t vanish.
It settles.
Yishun is not just where we grow up.
It is where we learn how to belong,
how to leave,
and how to remember.
If these memories feel familiar, there is more waiting.
Visit Neighbourhood Photographers to explore poetic stories shaped by neighbourhoods, time, and the quiet persistence of growing up.
