Nine(teen)

13-year-old me thought she had the world behind her
And thought she knew what she held dear
She never anticipated the storm to come

14-year-old me walked in the door with big expectations
Bright smiles, unguarded eyes
For the first day of the rest of her life

15-year-old me was a dreamer
And just like all other 15-year-olds,
She fell for all of the illusions

16-year-old me thought she had all the answers
And thought she knew what would last forever
Only to find that she would miscount the stars

17-year-old me had her illusions shattered
And watched the dark skies many nights,
Starless—lightless; a little bit hopeless

18-year-old me asked a lot of big questions
And set her dreams on fire with the challenge
For the world to watch them burn bright

19-year-old me knows how little she truly knows
Staying up all night, wide awake and dreaming
About the revelations of tomorrow

Innocent

     It is always springtime. In fact, it was right around this time every year. 
 

     The days stay untouched by time. The details are unclear and the memories are faded along the edges, but the time and place are always familiar.

     With the perpetual rain comes an inevitable shower of whirligigs. “Helicopters,” we called them. The maple trees produce their fruit in the form of keys which spin to the earth every April in torrents. It is an almost majestic dance—they flutter and twirl on their way down, often just barely eluding our childish grasp. I think their elusive nature drew us in. Children always like to chase things, and we were no exception. So we would chase without abandon, because we didn’t know to fear the world yet. 

     I lied when I told you that my mother said that successfully catching the falling maple keys would allow us one wish, you know. I just wanted to tell you something wonderful so that you might play with me at recess. Maybe six-year-old you saw right through six-year-old me. Maybe he didn’t—and maybe someday I’ll find out. But if you did, you didn’t care. We chased them with childish dedication, and we wished like we really did believe in miracles. To this day, I still do. 

     In our six-year-old minds, we thought that it would be good idea to plant a seed from the keys in the sandbox of the school playground. We nurtured that dream every day, making sure our little patch of sand was always properly watered. Unfortunately, we may have gotten a little ahead of ourselves when we dug it back up to make sure that it was still there. But that was my first encounter with a lesson on patience—and biology.  You have to keep faith in the things that you cannot see. 

     So imagine my surprise when I got your letter out of the blue, eleven years later, asking me if I remembered you. I asked how you thought I could ever forget. My perspective has not changed since those days. Though I have grown up, I am still the girl who searches for beauty in the broken and romance in the ordinary. I still want to chase dreams and make wishes with all the innocence in the world. Some would inevitably call me naïve; childish; disillusioned—yet I would not change a thing, because those spring days with you remind me to look at the world with eyes unclouded by the jadedness that comes with age. Childlike perspective is like looking at photographs through perfect glass. 

     Right now, you are just an idea; merely a passing dream. I wouldn’t know it was you if you walked past me on the street. Perhaps you are the stranger that I unwittingly shared a smile with today, or the boy that I passed by without a second thought. But it is dizzyingly mesmerizing to think that we watch the same sky every night. And so I will watch that sky and hope you are doing the same; that the simple action might connect us across the many miles. 

     The world could be winter, but it is forever springtime in my heart.