People scoff when I tell them I wish to be young again. They tell me I am young and don’t understand what it means to grow up. But I could argue that the growing up between being a child and a teenager is more cruel than any growing up that follows.
It’s dusk. An abundance of little pink and orange clouds fill the sky. The sun is almost hidden by the peak of the snowy mountain but still reaches my eyes. It’s the prettiest time of day, I have thought so for very long — some things don’t change. It’s one of the rare times I feel at peace and my thoughts are quiet.
My hands are tucked tightly in the pockets of my coat as I sit beside a small child on the old swingset. It lets out an aching squeak every time you so much as breathe near it, but it’s almost a comforting sound — a familiar one.
I look over at the child who appears to be mesmerized by the fading sun. She looks happy. I decided to quietly enjoy the sunset with her.
The silence is only broken after the sun is fully out of sight. She asks me what is wrong as I haven’t stopped looking at where the light has disappeared. I didn’t mean for it to look as if something is wrong but sometimes it gets tiring constantly covering up what is broken. Her soft voice pulls me from my dissociation. I force a smile back on my face and respond, “nothing” with the same softness in my tone. But it’s as if her piercing blue eyes are able to see right through me. She persists saying she knows there is something. I’m almost taken aback by the genuine curiosity and empathy in her voice. It isn’t often people simply want to hear you.
The fake smile I’ve plastered on my face faded into a real one seeing the light in her eyes. Lately everyone I look at seems dull with the same “I’m not actually okay” smile on their face.
I tell her I don’t even know — I’ve always found it difficult to turn my emotions to words. “I just feel like I’m not here. Like I’ve lost all my senses to the world around me as if I’m watching my life through a screen, observing but not experiencing. Going through the motions is what I suppose they call it.” I’m surprised at myself for actually giving an explanation. I turned to her, slightly scared to see her expression. But to my surprise she maintained the same composure as before.
She told me that although she doesn’t understand all of what I mean, she understands that I am sad. It was a short response but it was perfect. It was something that didn’t confuse me. It was someone who cared and wasn’t trying to fix me.
I tell her to enjoy what she has now — little understanding, innocence, simple things that make her happy, even the simple things that make her upset. She tells me she’s excited to grow up and see the world. It’s the way she says it that makes me want to cry. I remember her so well. I wish to have her back.
She asks why I look sad again and I laugh. I tell her I miss her. She asks why, genuinely confused, “I’ve always been with you?” I tell her how sometimes I forget her. She reassures me that she won’t let that happen and I begin to cry, wishing that her confidence alone could make it true.
She reaches to my face and wipes my tears. She tells me to think about the things I love. “Think about how you anticipate dance class all week because it’s something you so passionately enjoy. Think about how you feel when you step back and admire the art you’ve worked so hard on. Think about how every night your parents tell you they love you. Think about how you feel when you jump in the water and you’re suddenly weightless.”
I’m in full tears when she finishes. I don’t want to forget the things I love but sometimes it feels like my thoughts take over everything else.
Her thin arms wrap around me tightly. I’ve never been more thankful for a hug my entire life — because I knew she meant it — I always do.
Then of course I’m brought back to reality. She no longer exists. It’s cold. It’s now dark. And I’m alone. But at least for a moment, my mind gave me a break. It reminded me of who I was — who I am — instead of tormenting me about what I don’t know.
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