Digital photo albums are traitorous, treacherous, they may inspire you to playgrounds you'd forgotten but just as well remind you of playgrounds you had forever lost. How the years disappear from us, the joy in our eyes, how everything fits in a to-do list. I take a walk to the old wharf, disappear under giant cranes, imagine steel creatures in a faraway land. I step on icy snow drifts, remember how as a child I could spend hours just breaking ice, just moving snow, no purpose except to do just what I was doing.
The muscles of imagination stir, stretch in the late February sunlight, shake themselves off and stare bleary-eyed right at me, as if asking me for answers – as if I had any to offer. I test them out again, bolder this time, sitting in silence and allowing the stories to come, running with them, looking for magic in the margins. Little sparks fire off in synapses long sleeping.
Nothing is lost forever, not really. It may look different in the light of this day, but you mustn't mistake that for oblivion. It may take a little coaxing to stretch its limbs into the sunlight, but how worthwhile when it does.
You're never so far gone
that you cannot come home again.
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