A resident of the suburbs in Springfield Missouri, with my parents and sister.
An acidic holiday traditional of a pineapple sitting in my stocking on Christmas morning.
The smell of aging paperbacks that surrounded a cluttered bedroom.
The gift of independence that my 2002 Camari granted me.
The clusters of star that speckle the night sky like freckles.
A binder with hundreds of outlines, dozens of incomplete projects, but countless ideas.
The streetlights that line the trail at night, marking the path.
The tiny calluses on fingertips, from six years of experience of running my hands across black and white keys.
The pilfered seven of hearts from Mrs. Jansen’s deck.
A snowy evening spent indoors with several vibrant throw blankets.
A perfectionist, who refuses to cut corners and makes eight new ones.
The wafting smell of lavender incense burning throughout my home.
The lost child at the amusement park, desperately trying to find his parents.
The inventor, punster, writer, and veterinarian.
And the past ones I do not regret.
Love the Catsby! And all the sweet specifics you've included here. Mrs. R told me you have tons and tons of stories/ideas--they must be in that binder! I especially like the line about the stars that "speckle the night sky like freckles." I look forward to reading more of your work. Thanks, Chad!
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