"Last December, my dad gave me a box of my old toys he’d found in the attic. Most of it was junk — broken action figures, yellowed plastic, stuff I hadn’t thought about in decades.
At the bottom was one toy I never owned.
It was a small figurine, burned on one side, with a cracked smile. When I asked my dad about it, he went quiet and said, *“I thought you’d recognize it.”* He wouldn’t explain further.
That night, I had a dream about our old house fire. In the dream, I wasn’t running out — I was standing in my room, holding that toy, watching the smoke roll in.
At the bottom was one toy I never owned.
It was a small figurine, burned on one side, with a cracked smile. When I asked my dad about it, he went quiet and said, *“I thought you’d recognize it.”* He wouldn’t explain further.
That night, I had a dream about our old house fire. In the dream, I wasn’t running out — I was standing in my room, holding that toy, watching the smoke roll in.
Dreams of a lifetime bigger than the mistakes of love and devotion, of a man and a woman, and the bumps in the road.That night, I had a dream about our old house fire. In the dream, I wasn’t running out — I was standing in my room, holding that toy, watching the smoke roll in.
Coins To Pay, Sisters Within, Mothers To Moms: Kids, Nuts To Grow, Faces In The Lights Of Day.


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