In loving memory of the childhood days we will never get back.
We were our own people. No one cared if we wore unicorn pants or stripes against stripes. And we didn’t care if our outfits got dirty playing on the playground. We didn’t care if we looked stupid while playing tag. We just leapt, jumped off the swings because we were invincible. And when we got back on, we let others push us because we didn’t have anything to prove. We just closed our eyes and pretended we were flying high in the clouds that tasted like cotton candy. Make-believe was all we knew. Imagination was our drive. Our eyes weren’t glued to a screen because our minds were fun enough. We spent hours playing with dolls and action figures, pretending we were saving the world. And parents would take on a role, and we would correct them because they weren’t doing the right thing. Their minds just didn’t work like ours. But they tried, and they were patient. They taught us how to ride a bike and patched us up when we fell. They held our hands and dried our tears with their sleeves. And that was enough. We were just kids.
I wish every day that I was still a kid, because I took those days for granted. I long for the days I would challenge my dad to a race, and he would let me win. I miss the days when we spent hours trying to convince my mom to play one inning of wiffle ball with us before the sun set. Now, I save my energy to play three softball games on Saturday and possibly three on Sunday.
My sister and I don’t dance in the rain or jump in puddles. My brother chooses to be with his friends most of the time. They grew up. I haven’t fully grown up yet. I would still jump in puddles, but my jeans are $40, and money does not, in fact, grow on trees.
Whenever I do find myself at a playground again, I’m the one pushing kids on the swings. It’s their turn to fly. Their imagination is running wild.
I always look outside when the sky grows dark. I used to think it was scary, but now when the rain starts to fall, I imagine running around beneath the droplets and dancing beneath the lightning. The water trickles down my face, but it’s not raindrops. It’s tears, because my childhood is gone and my teenage years are overwhelming. So, I use my own sleeve and dry away the existing tears, waiting for new ones to fall. I have to bandage myself now, because I am capable of doing it. So here I am, glued to my phone because my imagination is rust covered.