I always liked the back door best. Everything outside the front door was beautiful; a forty-foot tall tree I couldn’t identify choked by a vine that bloomed with purple flowers in the spring that reminded me of mom’s perfume and tiny little pokey things that would stick to your clothes in the fall and the cul-de-sac with an island in the middle that was perfect for 5am-stargazing. But there was also a paved road, a satellite television dish, a blue car parked out front. But walking out the back door was walking into a different world. You were almost immediately met with a barrier of trees which seemed to only allow entry to me and my little sister. We thrived in our world of pretense, sometimes for a precious moment forgetting the hell between our front door and our back door. In those hours we were princesses, pirates, adventurers, and we were free.