When I was short and waif-like, and happy in my shortness, and my ignorance, and youth, I would curl into a little ball and hide myself in my ceder-lined hope chest. and just breathe in the wonderful smell and daydream.
Now I have a mortgage and credit cards, and a thrice-broken little heart, and a career path, and guilt, and sadness, and age, and grey hairs. And a little teapot in a ceder box. and I pour myself green tea, and breathe.
And somehow, I'm happier now.