Listening to the women at work talk about toddlers they know, whose mothers let them wear whatever outlandish thing they want, because well why not. And I think, yes, why not, why did my mother take it all so damn seriously - how what I wore reflected on her and not just on my age and personal eccentricity? And my long held imaginary relationship fades several more shades, and I let go of a bit more I didn't even realize I was holding on to.
Like letting go of imaginary friends, now that I have real ones.
The memory of smoke
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