Joy was a purple, scratched, plastic sled. The one we used to fling down a hill. 

Anticipation was sitting on that itchy blue and white rug. The same rug we’d burrow pennies in until they were lost at sea. 

Closeness was being piled up in a trundle bed. The sound of an old movie in the background while faint light from the moon peaked through a window. 

Discovery was an orange encyclopedia. Not knowing how to read, yet finding enjoyment from the various images. Ideas of possibilities firing through your mind. 

Excitement was imagination. The deep closet that became a cave or the burrow of leaves and dirt that became a fortress. 

Safety was when the thrashing of hurricane rain and wind surrounded us, we somehow remained untouched. 

Anger was a photo album. Wanting things to be the way they were but realizing nothing was ever perfect to begin with.

Sadness is an empty home. A bookshelf without the books. A sewing room without a trundle bed. A living room without the living. Feeling distant from everything you once knew.

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