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December 10, 2016
Consider this: A story written by a child. It happens as the child is writing it. I'm asking you to imagine again: In a child's mind is that now-unattainable peace and comfortable mischief; laughing in the rain, running after a firefly, blanket forts. Early mornings spent thinking of play, gentle touches, soft giggles. The story unfolds in front of you and it's all kinds of pink and bouncy and sweet. The hurts seldom come and, if they do, they are easily replaced by the now-defunct concept of moving on. Letting go. The smell of blue stars in summer.