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Like a happy, nappy sloth I lounge on the velvet couch with a blanket and a book and a half-eaten bag of pistachios.
Somehow, it smells like grilled cheese.

I look around to see red flowers and green carpets and soft yellow-glowing lamps. Here, it always looks a bit like Christmas.

Like a page out of Dickens, the doorbell rings and there's laughter in the kitchen and whispers in the hall. The sounds blend together to make a sort of comforting, domestic symphony.
A perfect soundtrack for a happy, nappy sloth on a velvet couch.

As the sun pours through the window, I close my sleepy eyes. In an instant, I'm back with my glittery pink toes in the grass, finishing a sticky slice of watermelon. I try to wipe the bicycle chain grease mark from my leg, when I see the older boys assembling.

I run across the lawn, clippings flying from my ankles. I'm told I can play as long as I run up the hill to retrieve the ball.

As I hurry, searching for a speck of white in the tall grass, I hear something. Something faint, something taunting, something nearing. I run to the top of the hill for some much-needed perspective.
And then, I see it!

I throw my hands into my jean short pockets. There's gotta be enough! Is there enough?...there is!

Minutes later, in typical little sister fashion, I return down the hill, this time strutting. I carry a dripping ice cream cone and a baseball.
Life is good.

In typical big brother fashion, I soon learn if I give my ice cream cone away I get to play shortstop. If not, catcher. So, I take the biggest bite my eight-year-old mouth can fit and hand off the rest. Sprinting on to the field to assume my rightful, favorite position, I know I've made the right decision.

These days, most decisions don't involve cones or cleats. They're bigger and tougher and much, much scarier.

Today I realize, it's nice that everything here always tastes a bit like grilled cheese and always looks a bit like Christmas. The sounds and the smells bring me back to a time when life's decisions really were about ice cream cones and baseballs and how many coins still clung to your pocket after a day of riding your bike.

As I wake on the velvet couch, I try to fit it all into my pocket for safe-keeping. Surely I'll need it in Los Angeles on one of those dreaded, cut-throat days full of red ink and roadblocks.

Until then, I'm going to go ride my bike.