come summertime, the third floor of my parents’ house always becomes a happenin’ spot, the place to be and be seen, for all the ladybugs in the neighborhood. when i was young, i’d creep up to the playroom to turn on the television, at lowest volume, sitting six inches from the screen, to sneak an episode of Saved by the Bell or Dawson’s Creek. as i sat cross-legged leaning back on my hands, enthralled, i was surrounded by ladybugs, all equally as interested in gossiping about Joey Potter’s crooked smile or Kelly Kapowski’s perfectly fluffy hair. they too had crushes on Zach and Dawson, and wished that we lived on a marsh, had ladders to our bedroom windows, had swishy cheerleading pom poms, had endless docks touching the horizon for strolling down and sitting and dangling our many feet off of. and when they’d climb up my fingers and hands and arms, whispering that they heard mom climbing those creaky stairs in search of her slippery little dreamer, i’d tenderly thank them. raising my finger to my mouth, i’d squeeze my eyes together, concentrate, make my wish, and blow. back down to the hubbub of her fellow ladies, for now.
(Source: energizeamente, via that-little-bun)