nostalgia
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One day you’re 10, and you’re waking up to the wet wilderness, putting on your dirt streaked flip flops to pick wild raspberries for morning pancakes. The foam soles bend around the gravel road, and you can feel every single pebble like the princess and the pea except you’re the king, the king of this
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To porches, for carrying the heavy late nights and the bountiful early mornings, for the oak to hold our treads, to cradle our sorry existences, to brace us under the lumens. a window isn’t enough.
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I always knew, somewhere deep and small within me, that the delight and joy of Christmas had faded as I got older. I tried every year to feel that same childlike joy, but it has never been the same. I have been trying to concoct magic for myself every year when the tricks have long
Lashanda Forsberg 