"Sometimes I feel like something is missing, like my backpack or a shoe, then I realize my spirit is just hungry. So I pray, and I feel better."
--Haley, an 8 year old.
I used to sit with her on my lap, and I'd tell her about July and the way it feels when someone wants to ride the tilt-a-whirl with you. I'd tell her it's strange, but also the best feeling.
She used to ask me about high school and what boys think of girls who wear braids. She used to tell me that my stories made her want to grow up. And that being a kid wasn't as fun as being ready.
If I could look Haley in the eyes and say one thing to her right now, I'd say that you'll never really be ready.
I wish I could tell you what it's like to leave. But I can't. It's a strange mixture of hope and relentless fear, a distorted beauty, a fractured expectation. It's lonely, but also endlessly crowded, and there are people who will want you to fail. And people who will want you to succeed. And people who really just don't care about any of it. There are no bedtimes and no dietary restrictions. There are no punishments. And no rewards. You feel twelve, you look 20, and you act like both. You have to make your own phone calls to the DMV and you don't have to go to the dentist anymore. Except you probably have like, four cavities that need to be taken care of.
I used to be just like Haley. I used to think I'd only be happy when I grew up. But now I know that the only time I ever was happy was when I was a kid. I'm torn between wanting change and feeling nostalgic for my past.
Because I know things will never be the same.
And I'll never be able to put my head on my mom's lap and tell her that I've never loved before, and that it sounds wonderful. I'll never be able to undo what's been done. But I know that somewhere out in the world there's a little eight year old girl wondering about love and beauty, and not hesitating to pray. She's smarter than me, and bigger in heart.
And I know that not all is lost.
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