I remember stumbling out of my small room, my legs uneven and wobbly due to a fractured ankle I had recently recovered from. Everything was a fog, almost completely dreamlike, only real, and drenched in the morning colors. Red and orange reflected off of everything and sunk into the walls. I was happy then, the pure kind of happiness felt only by a child still discovering the world. 

I look over at the screen door that overlooked our front yard. Everything is pristine and clear, the old oak tree sways its ancient leaves, and the lake. God the lake, it too had collected that brilliant sun, a million tinny crystals all holding on to the seemingly magic radiation.

That place is gone, locked away in nearly conceivable way. I may never see the inside of my childhood dwelling again, but I hold on to the memory, and I think about it every time I need to remember that there is magic in the world.