Child Within

Curiosity. Belief. Comfort. Truth. Imagination. Innocence.

When I was little I would ask my older sister everything. Why does it rain? What makes thunder? Curiosity.

She always responded, not always accurately, of course. But that didn't matter. She always gave me an answer; she never once said "I don't know." That's all that mattered. I believed. Just as I believed in the tooth fairy and the easter bunny. Belief.

I trusted everyone. The only thing I feared was dogs; they terrified me. I always knew, though, that if there was someone around I would be safe. Human presence comforted me. When I was hurt, I would run home to Mom. I knew that she could always heal my pains. In the townhouse we lived in, there were only two rooms, one of which my older sister slept in, and the other my mom, younger sister, and I would sleep in. Everytime I woke up in the middle night, Mom was awake. I knew that no one could harm me. Comfort.

I never lied. That never went away. From the start, I had this extremely firm moral compass built within me. If I did anything wrong, I cried. I remember in Kindergarten once, this boy talked to me during naptime. When we woke up, I saw that the teacher had pulled pin for the day. She saw me staring at my missing yellow push pin and told me that I had been talking during naptime. I didn't get that smiley face stamp on my hand at the end of the day. I went home crying. Mom told me it was ok. No, it wasn't. I wasn't talking; it wasn't fair. I told my teacher I didn't talk, but she didn't believe me. Why would anyone lie? I never understood. Truth.

My imaginary friend, Angelica, would always give me company when my older sister was at school. When my older sister wasn't home one day, I asked Angelica what fireflies were. She didn't know either, so after much pondering we both came to a conclusion: fireflies were stars that had come down to play games among the trees. Imagination.

When my younger sister was born, someone gave us one of those big, pink balloons. I love balloons. I became so attached to it; it sat in our house for weeks. My eyes sparkled everytime I looked at it. One day, mom said we had to let it go, for it was wasting away. My heart felt heavy as my mom, sister, and I stood at the backyard watching it drift away. Tears filled my eyes.

On rainy days, my older sister would catch raindrops on our tongues. One day, we had the couches outside on the back patio to dry. It began to rain, though, so my sister and I ran outside and jumped on the couches and caught raindrops in our mouths.

I remember I would always pick those little "flowers" for my mom. The long and skinny and small white ones, the ones that grew along with all the dandelions. I would collect a bunch and give her "flowers." I never knew they were weeds. I thought they were abundant and beautiful and sweet. I would try to blow all the dandelions that gathered in our yard, making as many wishes as I could, or the same wish over and over again. My sister and I would run to see who would get the next one first. Then we would lie down in the grass and roll down the hill between our house and the neighbor's, laughing. Innocence.

Purity.