You were gold-spun hair and tiny limbs and big, expressive hazel eyes, and dare I say, gold-spun skin?! You had pixie dust in your bloodstream, and it wasn’t from all the handmade princess dresses in the perfectly curated closet your mother kept for you. It was just you.
You were only three in these memories that live forever in me. That was the season I spent the most time with you. I watched you from (I think) 9:30 to 2:00 p.m., two or three days a week.
I remember the white table in your playroom. We ignored all the toys in favor of the same imaginative scenario over and over. I still delight in taking full credit for whatever it was that hooked you most. Sometimes I could coax you into coloring, and I remember the moment you looked at something I drew and felt sad you couldn’t do the same. I said, “Bitty, I couldn’t do it when I was your age either.”
But it didn’t translate, because in your eyes (healthy or not) we were the same age.
Occasionally, I still think that’s true. You’re fifteen now, and I’m thirty-eight. I get a text from you that says, “sometimes I forget you’re a millennial,” after I dare to reference The Office.
All I hear is a moment from those days:
“How old is CC?”
“Three.”
You were my excuse to leave the dinner table early at holiday parties, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes resent putting my wine glass down and stepping away from the conversation. But I always did. And now I can say with full certainty: I have no regrets.
Because I never knew how fast time would fly,
but how lucky I am that you still want me next to you.
It was always you and me.
On the floor, making your toys come alive.
Acting out a song together in the living room.
I was the one you sought.
And I felt chosen: your treasure.
It makes me think of something my cousin once said:
“You want to be chosen? Work with kids.”
That makes me laugh as I type this.
Those moments? When I watched you? The rooms we were in felt holy.
I can still see my big body next to your little one at that white table, on the couch, or reading one of your thousand books in your daybed. The color pink swallowed us whole in there. But it was lovely.
Sometimes, your personality put me in a trance.
You felt everything fully.
There was always that gleam in your eyes.
And now I get to know you at fifteen.
You’re a writer too.
But unlike me, you protect yourself.
You apply yourself.
There’s a part of you that already knows who she is, and isn’t afraid of it.
And I’m so happy I get to witness that.
(Daily Writing 043)
Thoughts?