Is it possible that children are so simple-minded that we all view our worlds in a very similar fashion, or has Stephanie Klein somehow tapped into a stream of consciousness, one that feels so private and heartwarming?  This isn’t the first time I feel like she’s read my mind, but posts like this keep me subscribed to her blog.  I wish I her talent for words.

Those days where the lawn seemed large, where the driveways seemed immense, where everything seemed bigger, and home always felt like socks warmed on a radiator. Not so young that peanut butter smeared on an apple passed as a fun snack, but young enough not to know what it’s like to miss. Young enough where you don’t know any differently, where life feels like it will always be lived in the walls of your house. When you think that room of yours will always be yours. Where home life consists of your mother dragging you through her errands, getting a lollipop from the man at the dry cleaners, a sticker from the lady at the bank. You hold your nose when your mother forces you to accompany her into the seafood store for a pound of flounder and some raw deveined shrimp. Your father clunks his way up the stairs in his heavy leather shoes, breifcase in hand, the one you always saw on his bed, with that yellow legal pad, a place for a pen, but the calculator was on his desk. You liked those golden little dials, the combination on the outside. Your favorite part was pushing those little chicklet buttons, watching the clasps fly open. It was the closest you came to a trap door. Those days were spent fighting your sister for your parents’ attention after a day filled with school bells, hallways, cafeteria ladies, and bus stops.  More…

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