The tools of fantasy were simple... old scarves for the capes of kings and queens, a stick for a hero's sword, a basket to hold the mud pies to take to grandmother's house, an old watering can to nourish the magic beans we found in our garden.
Weeping willow branches hid us from the outside world and the creek became an ocean to be navigated, the little rise of sand a desert island. Old, crumbling outbuildings became castles or dungeons.
Years later, I returned to this secret garden to share it with my son and was amazed by how small it was. No longer the vast, wondrous world of my childhood but the run down bit of pasture it had always been to those without our imagination. Yet, I can still picture the magic that happened there. All I have to do is close my eyes and dream.
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