When I was a little girl, I lived in a somewhat little house with my little family which consisted of my mom, my dad, and my sister. We lived on a little street and we had a little back yard and a little swing set, slide, and gymnastics rings for flipping in circles until we were dizzy. When I think about my perception of the world at the time, it seems like a little bubble - I lived in a place where most things were the same a lot of the time and I had a very good childhood. So much so that sometimes I wonder if I even just made it up. My mom showed me how to make things, and my dad showed me how to explore, and I used to spend entire Saturdays playing hide and seek and trying to get my swing to fly high enough to launch me into the sky. All of the neighborhood kids kept hiding and seeking and playing tag and hopscotch until the street lamps came on and our moms called us home.
I've just been watching the movie Away We Go and the last scene when Verona and Burt go to Verona's childhood home and decide to make it their own, it kind of makes me wish I could go back to my old house. The crazy thing is that I have actually driven past there a handful of times since we moved, but it isn't really the same place. Everything was small because I lived in my bubble, but everything was big because it was all I knew. Now, the house is just a building that people have changed in ways I hate, and where people have chopped down the pine trees that shaded me in August when the sun was too hot.
