fireplace. I loved playing catch underneath the huge oak tree with my cous-
ins, as lost childhood continents inside its hollow made us feel like children
again. Hand in hand with my friends or students I did not even know, I would come back home from school on winter days and relish how we seemed like a chain of human beings that tried to walk on frozen pavement and
help one another not to fall. We would have freezing sparrows and kittens on our shoulders, silver roses painted by snowflakes on our hair, and the
warm clouds of our breaths made us look as if we housed dragons inside our chests. I would crawl on the roof of my house to watch the sunrise. I mar-
veled at the dancing streams of golden light that kissed the mountains and
at the cobblestone streets and the droplets of dew. While I was listening to
old serenades on grandpa’s old radio, I would hear my grandparents tell me stories about their youth. I met my friends at our favorite café as we talked
and laughed and shared secrets. Adorned in my prettiest dresses, I walked around a certain neighborhood hoping for a certain someone to notice me while covered in my warm blankets as car lights painted the walls of my
little room with phantasmagoric shapes, I loved listening to jazz albums late at night. All these things were always there but I had always taken them for
granted and never noticed how much I loved them—and how I would miss them if I were to lose them one day.
I loved these things so much that I started writing about them. I did not stop
reading and writing fantasy. Instead, I read differently. I realized that some of the fantasy books I had read earlier in life reiterated the message I had found
in Anna Karenina: love life’s little moments in all their glory. However, before
Anna Karenina this message was hidden behind a veil of fantastical creatures and events, and I had not truly grasped it. As my attitude towards reading and writing changed, so did I.
Today, when people ask me what my favorite memory is, they usually regret
it because once I start talking, I never stop. I start to recite a never-ending list of things that I do everyday, things that I learned to love as I was experiencing them through a dance of words in a book written almost two hundred years ago.
The Macomb Community College journal of student words and images.