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Anything is possible, it seems, at 12:35 on a Saturday morning.

Anything is possible when you sit down in front of your computer, wearing a stolen, twenty some-odd-year old polyester suit that smells faintly of . . . moth balls (and tobacco). . .a million memories.

Anything is possible.

You said that once, when I was nine or ten, and I asked you if you would live forever.

You didn't.

I am going to a formal dance tomorrow night; and I will be wearing your suit. I will be ravishing, and handsome, and glorious. . . a little girl playing dress up in grandpa's oversized plaid. I think all the pretty boys will dance with me, and I think I will spin in circles across the room with all the handsome girls (playing dress-up in mommy's too tight skirts, and long strings of pearls. . .too much make-up). For them though, the night won't be as beautiful, or personal.

Who knows?

Anything is possible.

For me, it will be just like you are there again. Just like when I was a little girl, and you would wear the suit, and I would stand on your polished shoes while you danced around the living room of your castle, holding me in your strong arms while we laughed. I was a princess back then, And you were a King. . . Eventually we fell giggling to the floor and together we made Grandma bring us cookies and lemonade. . .(remember the cookies? and how good they were?)

Someday, I think it would be nice if I were a little girl again, and you and I were together. . . I could stand on your shoes, and we would dance forever through the stars. Then I would be able to give your suit back, and tell you how dashing you looked. . . curtsy. . . smile.

Then I wouldn't be sitting here at 12:35 on a Saturday morning, wearing a stolen polyester suit.

Like you said. . . Anything is possible.

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