We weep for the weed-choked places of our childhood, the vacant lots and rotted fences where scraped knees bloodied denim patches. We thirst for the memory of spring showers when the rat-a-tat-tat of giant raindrops on tin roofs beckoned us to dance monkey wild, mud oozing delicious between our toes. We hunger, once more, for Papa's bedtime prayers, his gravel voice booming over the stone rumble of our bellies as we huddled like puppies on beds of ragged blankets, feather pillow dreams floating in clouds above our heads. We smile at the memory of newsprint ships that gaily sailed in asphalt-bottomed streams and rejoice over oceans of childhood imaginings that carried us gently through the storm.