Do you remember summers growing up, playing in the yard with the neighborhood kids until the sun went down and the porch lights came on?
I do.
Being home brings with it a sense of nostalgia. Especially when you know your immediate future holds little time in this place.
When I was a little girl, we would feed the wild horses that wandered into our backyard, just like my brother does now.
We would run around like the little hooligans we were and play spies and secret agents. I would always play the reporter. One day, the little girl with a notepad and pencil became the woman with the press pass. Every day through the last years of college and my first years of professional life, I would walk in these doors.
When I wasn’t there, I was here, in a little hovel downstairs.
And I knew everything about what went on here:
Then, once upon a time, that little neighborhood woman married her prince charming. Now we are making our own happily ever after. But I can’t help by still love those bygone summers, playing in the yard with the neighborhood kids until the sun went down and the porch lights came on.
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