Little Girl


You are the memory
Of trees I used to climb
And sit for hours with the sky above
And the grass beneath my swinging legs
It was the mysterious elegance of that simple world
That pulls me back towards it like a kite flying with the wind
Is ultimately just waiting to fall back to the ground
Home bound- that is the way you’ve made me feel
People may question the significance of
A broken little girl in my life since
She’s been dead so long

But the truth is
Your photo reminds me
Of my own long-lost innocence
Magically transforming something bittersweet
Into a tiny little forever of our own- it can’t be taken away
It flows in my veins and will continue to do so until my heart beats
That is why I dream of you on hot summer nights, naked
On a bed of broken glass where I lie still with just
Enchanting stories on my tongue
But no one to tell them to
In this massive universe.

I heard a true story yesterday about a girl who died when she was twelve and it moved me. I saw a photograph of someone i had never met and never will. A stranger calling out to me through the strands of time. Perhaps there could have been a way for me to have known her. Or perhaps just hearing about her and feeling myself stirred into emotion for someone I only hear of as a dream (or will it be a nightmare?) was enough. There was a time I thought magic existed. Back then I might have concluded there was a reason I got to hear of her. Perhaps so that I could write of her. And perhaps she would be somewhere out there, smiling through that invisible wall that separates us. Or perhaps she would never comprehend why I felt for her when she should mean nothing to me really.

Now I am not so sure there is any reason to this chaos except me wanting to put these thoughts on paper. The only other thing to expect is that someone, somewhere would read this and it would remind them of someone they loved and lost or a fond childhood experience with a person they no longer know. Either way, I felt the need to put to paper this story and yet I didn’t want to get into it. I think the only real reason I write is to console myself, to consolidate the threads of my heart that keep getting tugged at by things I see and stories I hear and people I know.

I am a believer of an individual’s powers to heal and emerge stronger through change. Metamorphosis waits to occur outside our doors as long as we choose to let it in. As long as that happens, we can continue to live for as long as we are supposed to or meant to without falling apart. That is what I wish for everyone anyway.

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