"Aberystwyth" (The Jones Family Farm) (Where my parents are right now! Lucky them!)
Freedom! The warm, dry earth crumbles beneath my bare feet. Heaven's swirling, golden-orange underbelly dances, the last vestiges of sunshine igniting cumulus clouds near the long horizon. The sky here at Aberystwyth is so big. Underneath it, I feel safe. The sweet, familiar smell of dry grass and gum leaves makes breathing satisfying. My mind has wings of its own as I run, imagining I'm bounding through the magical amulet-arch from E. Nesbit's tale left open by the hearth inside. There are no boundaries to the stories to dream, the paddocks to roam, the plans to make at The Farm. I can climb high, up onto the tank-stand, towering eerily above the ground. I can dive low, deep into the cool water of the channel. I can run wide, far beyond the edges of our world. I can travel through time, indulging in the feast set before me at the overflowing banquet of books here. I can write stories and songs and plays, and direct them with my siblings and perform them for my parents. I can laugh. I can cry. I can gaze at infinite stars, sparkling silver ink blotching black paper sky, warm bonfire kissing my skin. Here I am truly alive. Here I am myself. Here I have shalom.