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"The way it used to be"—when we were little and wide open and so un-suspicious and safe—is a happy, funny thing to think about. My sister and I pretended we were birds in the fall and made giant nests of sticks under the bushes in our front yard. In the winter, covered in snow, they were reindeer nests. We drew maps to take on walks around the block so we could look for the wolf we imagined was hunting our house. We spoke pretend languages. We believed whatever we wanted and trusted everything we were told. We tried so hard not to eat the candy we'd given up for Lent. The saints were watching. We were positive there was a treasure buried in the wall of our basement. Our old house was haunted. Our dad said so. I believed in Santa until I was thirteen.
Clare Grill | See All Editions