my childhood home has a swingset, a hammer and a yellow slide we attached with patience and stubborn love. I held the nails while my dad worked and for the first time, felt what it meant to be useful. in spring, the daffodils bloomed along the fence and in summer, the fireflies collected in the garden like loose thoughts. I'd catch them in each hand just to hold something bright and call it mine for a moment. my childhood home has a hill and a brother and a roof where I'd lay and watch the stars thinking maybe, surely, this is enough.