A night-owl since before learning to tie my primary-colored Keds, sneakily under my Ninja Turtle sheets, and much past bedtime, I’d sing myself to sleep with melodies from my world of make-believe. Outside my cluttered room through my window with the peeling paint, were historic stone-lined logging roads nestled between the trees that danced in the winter winds. These paths preserved the stories of thousands of feet over hundreds of years. These things outside our windows. The little, nestled somethings. They ground you. They remind you, much like my collection of mix-tapes: anthems of adolescence thoughtfully amassed on one fabulous Memorex cassette.
The day I rifled through an old suitcase filled with faded photographs of my parents is the day I knew I wanted to tell stories like the ones in those photographs. Stories of my dad sneaking out of his bedroom window at night just so he could get in an extra hour of playing ice hockey. My mom, a ballerina, in her handmade, dance costumes for every recital. Their genuine, smallest of every day moments honored, remembered- and I can hold them between my fingers. My dad, standing on the frozen pond in Boston, hockey stick in-hand, bundled up from head-to-toe. My mom, graceful. lovely. in sequins and satin.