I remember eating frozen TV dinners like lasagna and linguini, and thinking they were gourmet, rich foods.
I remember sharing a flower quilted bed with my two cousins and exchanging secretes in giggles and whispers every night.
I remember snatching my grandpa’s jar of colorful, tasty jellybeans and eating them quietly while hiding behind the enormous recliner.
I remember having tea parties with my very first friend and endlessly fighting about who served the fluffiest, sweetest, and best muffins.
I remember hating my dorky, smudgy glasses and hopelessly trying to break or lose them at every chance I received.
I remember cleaning my aunt’s boat after a long weekend of fun and scorching temperatures, the smell of vinegar burning my nose and my tired arms aching from scrubbing the sides.
I remember the night my first sleepless night without my mom and dad in the same house.
I remember waking up the minute sunlight struck through my window every morning and sprinting outside in bare feet into my daddy’s arms to check on our Joshua tree.
And I remember the look of pain on my dad’s face as every morning as our tree failed to survive in the harsh desert climate that was my home in Lancaster, California.