Hobo dinners packed into a lump of tin foil and tossed in the coals.
Embers that glow red when we puff air into the heart of the fire.
A humid loft with two beds that are impossible to keep neat, and a ledge of tired dolls and animals.
A cookbook with every kind of cookie and recipes clipped from articles falling out between the pages.
The distinct smell of sunblock and mosquito repellant.
The portly barrels of wine in the cellar that could, for all I know, be full of demons.
Sitting on the stairs with my legs between the steps, letting my feet dangle underneath me.
Watching the finches and hummingbirds flit around the feeders, and laughing when the chipmunks fill their cheeks to bursting.
The disintegrating box of red plastic blocks in the basement that we never put away.
Seeing my skin turn pale from the green light that filters through the pines - the same trees that morph into devils when the sun sets.
Drinking hot cocoa in the mornings and eating dinner well past dark.
His distinct laugh and her nighttime dictum, “Goodnight, God bless you, I love you, pleasant dreams.”
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