My favorite childhood toys were Hot Wheels;
for my little brother, Tech Decks and Spiderman.
My sister had this obsession with dolls and I still can't understand what made something you called a brat so special but, nonetheless we had our toys.
And each one left imprints on our lives more unique than birthmarks and more permanent than tattoos. You see whenever our colorful world became overshadowed with blues my sister would make things better by decorating her figures and a few races down the hallway would help me blow past my issues while my brother shredded over his own with fancy tricks on the bookshelf because we found refuge in our toys.
It's true.
Now you might me childish, but recall how many medicinal uses you discovered during private play time: Those many adventures of learning to use an Easy Bake oven and the thought of accomplishment that latches onto the first cake you bake or, how GI Joe's bravery in the jungles of your room provided strength against bullies so they could never cloud your world because, well, the good guys always saved the day. And the life-sized princess became your new best friend for sharing good news because she was always the best listener.
I remember my few years as a toddler and those that swiftly followed.
They were filled with the energies of private play time because my company wasn't always enjoyed.
But my toys sat in despair each time they were left in the dark waiting for the next opportunity to Band-Aid my spirit and self-esteem each time they became damaged.
But age eventually presented a much harder job. Play-Doh became a less effective antibiotic and finished puzzles stopped functioning for making sense of my thoughts because fourteen was apparently a synonym for complicated.
I began to speak to my parents with a new found boldness and my Rescue Heroes failed to save me from their wrath. All while I discovered a new passion for poetry.
But wait, there's more.
My face began to map out all of my insecurities and "X" marked the spot with each oozing pimple, Pop! Again. Each oozing pimple, Pop! Again. Each oozing pimple, Pop! God I think you missed a spot, letting my face and heart become a little too dirty. There are just too many spots.
I hated the fact that at this time, girls were finishing their ugly duckling stage while mine had just started.
And as the years advance the distance between my crown and feet, so did my toys move farther from my heart; their value dimming more and more like the last candle in a powerless home. So the family comes close, until they are forced to embrace. And then the family hugs tighter, until they begin to hope that their tight physical bond would perpetuate that last flickering flame.
I use my memories to produce that same hope, because my siblings might allow them to steal away into their mind's blackness. So I keep them.
And when the blues invaded my colorful world again, I can remember that happiness did exist.
So it’s always possible that I can have it now.