I feel young today. Standing on the coffee table to feel taller, gazing at nothingness with crooked limbs and a blank expression; the more absent-eyed the more rampant the thoughts. I feel naive. Silly and solitary and full of ridiculous ideas. I feel maternal. Unable to shake the image of a 12-year-old girl picking herself apart in the bathroom mirror before she returns to her friends, stiff and tense. I feel nostalgic leafing through pages to find the same window I looked out of all those years ago, to see the same headlights eyes by, to hear the same piano keys imprint themselves on the night sky. I hear the chords now and they linger familiarly, but strike me with a newness, a more rotund, all-encompassing weightiness.
I am being called back to my childhood, to my sore nail-beds that have since matured and calloused. My mind is pivoting, giving pigment to memories that have since fallen to grey and black, telling silent stories of anonymity and forgotten homes, reconstructed imaginary spaces, green fields and humming songs at the corners from Minas Gerais. I cannot remember the coloring books but I remember the crayons, charcoals, pencils and all my silly drawings, always in their place, papers, the tips always rounded and dull, well cared for, well used. I never visited that home again, that old city, and I wonder where those crayons and pencils have gone with all my child’s dreams, if they are still and recumbent in a drawer, or whether they have been thrown away quietly and unassumingly long ago, meaning nothing more than the pang they made against the bin, my dreams are crackling and settling again, so apparent and loudly mundane that no one must have heard, just my mind in a kid’s dream…❤