The creaking chains of the bench swing played in rhythm to the steady pulse of the staple gun as I thumbed through a book. My dad worked at a consistent pace to secure the oversized, colorful bulbs to the roof.
Hours later my sisters and I stood back to admire his labor. Each bulb a different color from the one next to it. A few bulbs down the colors repeated. A pattern formed. During the day there was nothing spectacular about those lights. But at night. At night they would light up the house, reflecting off our faces, lighting up our hearts.
I remember the lights. Memories are like those lights…..
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