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  • I had a "perfect" childhood.

    I lived in a brick ranch home, situated on a shady drive lined with bradford pear trees. My room looked over the expansive backyard of shiny green and pale whites, and in the summer frogs and crickets would lure me to sleep. I had a wildlife reserve in my backyard, and I picnicked there at least once a week during the summer. My dad built my sister and I a wooden play set, complete with two swings, a see-saw, and a look-out tower. From the tower you could reach over the fence, separating our yard from the wildlife reserve, and pick wild berries for your toys' desserts. Underneath the tower, a sandbox was filled and ready for mixing up pies, concocting new potions, and digging burrows for red ants. One of the looming oak trees in the backyard held yet another treasure my dad had built. I would climb up several wooden slats into our simple treehouse. Open the shutters and you might be serenaded with petals from a nearby bradford pear on a windy day. My yard was big enough for small soccer games with friends. The grass felt plush and damp underneath hot feet. The built in sprinkler system would spray me as I bounced around on my trampoline. I would watch my little puppy dart across the yard making her brilliantly white coat stand out even more. My basketball could be heard hitting the backboard late at night when I couldn't sleep. In the winter, I'd walk about five minutes to my favorite sledding spot where most of my school friends visited. I walked to school through secret shortcuts, each connecting to beautiful subdivisions of quaint suburbia. Nowhere was unsafe. I could walk anywhere. And at that time everything I wanted was right in a walk's reach.
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