When I was a little girl, my father often brought home boxes of used paper from work. My sisters and I would flip over the second-hand pages and fill the plain white backs with our drawings and our carefully printed words. We laid on the floor and wrote notes to each other, made up stories, and we drew up lists of names for our future children. We designed and sketched the houses we'd raise those children in, complete with indoor swimming pools, and playrooms filled with toys that spanned entire floors.
I lived in my imagination as a child, and when I grew up I imagined my two beautiful children into being, and lucky me, they came with a kind, loving husband. I kept drawing and reading, I painted and wrote poetry, I fell in love with photography, I got very sick and lost myself, and lucky me, I eventually got better.
And so I keep on imagining. I write and I read and I take pictures of the people and the places that touch my life, I dream about my mother and I am thankful for my father's continued good health. I tell my sisters my story, and they tell me theirs, the endings ever-changing and shifting as the years fly by. But the beginnings stay the same, sweet and tender, the three of us on the living room floor surrounded by a sea of white paper and possibilities.