• R. E. Maynard



I was a child wild with freedom to roam—ran through creeks in favored games of tag with friends who never did lag behind. Combed the neighborhood for random wooden boards to add to the development of a treehouse built to escape my boorish home-life. Grew up out riding bikes, fashioning ramps, or even crashed a few times in epic attempts to fly, and yet–I got back up and on to ride yet another day’s sufficing for adventures to forego wherever the wind did blow.

Bruises, lacerations, and scraps—all played a harsh reality in my willingness to sacrifice my body for fun, as we competed in challenges to see who had the most agility to achieve the impossible, or as mischief scored its regards for seeds planted firmly atop thoughts to live free from the restrictive ties to every parents’ rules. My friends and I played hard. Our youthful curiosities got the best of us at times. An abandon lot acted as the perfect plot, as we gathered to play baseball, football, and even adults joined in so too interact with their once youthful lives gone but not forgotten.

Spiral area rugs made for the perfect communities to cruise, as my Hot Wheels collection passed the hours by—like miniature races, these vehicles served my imagination’s aptitude for pretending that I had grown into whatever the likes of a childhood might ponder most adherently. A result of this collection provided me with some pretty cool drives along coffee table avenue—my journeys remained limitless to take me to the farthest reaches of a mind’s capacity to expand time. Aligning each tiny vehicle along the footboard of my dresser, the wooden structure became resemblant to destinations only a dreamer would reinvent to adopt mindful moments where time matter least to a child’s life.

I found plenty of time to be childproof, and as I protected all of the best of times in a heart like mine–these memories defined a child’s imaginative affair with living just right.

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