I loved the heat register in my home.  
Pretty vents decorating the floor,
making things warm and cozy;
I’m a fan of both.
I sat on top of them when I was a child,
nightgown spread wide to capture the warm air,
a tiny parachute of heat,
my quilt on my lap to make sure that
no warm air was lost to my bedroom’s surrounds.
I’d cocoon there on the regular,
and read from the pile of books I’d carried home from the library,
too many books filling a backpack too heavy for young shoulders, 
but I’ve never been one for moderation, especially when it comes to reading.
I’d bring along an apple or five for company, Macintosh preferred. 
I like their tartness and the thin skin that snaps when your teeth tear in.
For the uninitiated, fruit makes an excellent companion; 
it’s non-judgmental and doesn’t chatter away, interrupting story flows or my immersion.
I’d read until the trapped heat threatened to burn my skin,
and then I’d read more.
I may have set the thermostat higher for maximum burn. 
Getting lost was my happy place.
Getting lost was safety.
Who doesn’t want a safe space populated by wonders?

*If we’re being technical, heat vents aren’t registers. I took some artistic license.