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The Toys in my Hands

The cold winds were starting when we unloaded into our new house in Amherst, Ohio. It was a drafty old two-story home with hardwood floors; a creaky attic; a cold, damp basement; and a large front porch a few steps up from the sidewalk. My mom and I lived in it alone. My room was L shaped. Tucked into the short stick of the L were the bed and bookcase loaded with books, and in the long stick were my toys. At the intersection of the two sticks was a window with yellow drapes that made the winter sun look like summer.

I didn’t make friends at school, so in this room I played alone with my toys and my imagination all winter long till we moved again. In this room, I was never lonely, just in solitude. The toys in my hands and the stories in my head were all I needed, and it was fun.

Not much is different as an adult. I have all the toys in the world with just a qwerty keyboard and a piece of paper, and when I sit down in front of the machine to write, I have fun like I did when I was a kid. Only now, the toys in my hands, and the stories in my head often are my way of combating the neurosis, confusion, and loneliness that comes with age and experience, but as I write, it is fun to play with these toys, even in the midst of crisis.

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© 2006 Christian Cloud Abraham

Posted on February 12, 2006 in
Emotion: Wonder, Type: Journal Entry