We’re back in the old house, with its dirty walls and childlike charm. I’m sitting on the carpeted floor of my bedroom, holding a stuffed animal, and playing my dad. I don’t remember much of what we were doing, other than tiny bits and pieces of conversat

We’re back in the old house, with its dirty walls and childlike charm. I’m sitting on the carpeted floor of my bedroom, holding a stuffed animal, and playing my dad. I don’t remember much of what we were doing, other than tiny bits and pieces of conversation, and giggling at his jokes.

I see pictures in my head of my old room, with its pretty pink walls painted to look just like a princess's room, my old art put up on the wall, and a window looking out to the driveway and the rest of the neighbourhood.

We’d play with stuffed animals, mimicking how they’d walk by bouncing them up and down, and I would be able to point to each one and give its name without a second of hesitation. It was before I knew how dangerous the world could be, and how sad it was. Before we had to move, and before I really had a grasp on much of anything. I was blissfully oblivious to everything, perfectly so.