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That seashell you found for me. The clovers you strung together to adorn your head, and our crazy, free laughter. Those ladders we made from iris leaves, believing like fools that if they were long enough, we’d be able to climb them to the city of clouds. The city of dreams.

The scuffle in the soft, fluffy snow, and the snowman we built, complete with your feathered hat. The one you trampled on a few years later. The one you used to wear when we played hide-and-seek.

Those inky nights, when we peered from our windows to see if the snowman would really come to life; and stared anxiously and protectively at each other’s door. Do you remember?

I want to relive those moments. With you. I want them back. I want to feel the salted air tingle on my tongue while you carry me on your back, and I want to split the first snowflake with you before it melts. I want to get drenched in the blinding rain and jump in puddles, and I want to fly beside you with eagle wings.

I want to listen to old gramophone records and waltz you round the room. I want to talk to you in a different language, a language that no one but us understands. I want to hold you close again, so close that I can feel your heartbeat and see every tear that sparkles on your eyelashes.

I want to hear you whistle at my gate again, and go for long walks in the moonlight. Or drive along the seashore and listen to the symphony of the crashing waves. Or go for a picnic into the sunset.

I want to take photographs of you. With you. For you; so that we can remember forever what isn’t. I want to lie on the wet grass again and watch you trace my name in the stars. I want to make paper boats and race yours along the stream of life. I want that.

I want it all.