Peeling back the paint

Looking back on the years, I wondered if this is an experience to wrestle with. I set my childhood shoes at the foot of my bed and stared at them. A few paces back and forth, I looked longingly at them to transport myself to another time. My mind searched for the times my tears fell and my feet ran tirelessly through the dandelions. Quietly, time had snuck me off into the future where I had not protested against my youth. I rubbed my shoulders,  listening to the white noise of the room and thought this is what I am. I am here and I was there, then. I came through the world, meeting the forking of paths. The closet door became a wardrobe entrance to another world. Here, a part of me had made a pillage to solve every mystery. I was the corner of the library where the books beckon you to forget time and live outside of your life.
The milkweeds adorned the fences linking my next door neighbor and I. For I was that too, the child sniffling in the tree branches when it rained. The faint smell of fresh blueberries, from Mexico, were sold from the back of a pickup truck. I was coming home.
How do I gift this? Do I keep it and take it to the ground? Are my memories fond of their replays looping like a CD mixtape.
At the edge of my bed, I looked at my childhood shoes and wondered what has come out of all of this. I am peeling back my layers one by one without withering.

**rambling. I will do something with this…

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