When my dad was growing up he had one sweater each winter. One. Total.
He remembers how vigilantly he cared for his sweater. If the elbows got holes in them my grandma patched them back together. If he lost his sweater he'd recount his steps to find it again. He guarded it like the precious gift it was.
He had everything he needed and not a lot more. The only rule was to be home by dinner time. My grandma rarely knew exactly where her kids were.
They were off building forts, making bows and arrows, collecting bruises and bloody knees and having the time of their lives. They were immersed in childhood.
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