Growing Up

Apr 27, 2008 - 21:55 PM PST
Pixies don’t catch in the butterfly net the way they used to. When we harvest stars in our baskets, they brew into daylight; too soon evaporate through white weave into angels and fall fog around the dolls at my tea party; sitting idle with full cups steaming into mist and empty mouths; empty heads. New interests in gossip and cuties; they giggle, they eat the pixies and giggle them up onto my new pink shoes… “too pink” they say. Every bubble I ever blew pops on pine needles and rose thorns, little bursting pockets of pirates and mermaids and men on moons and safaris and spaceships. Burst into the wind that blows the dust we swept from the tree fort every afternoon over the knotted wood with all the same bruises on it’s floor as we have on our knees from falling like stars that we used to brew into tea for my dolls and Charlie my imaginary friend who has since acquired a taste for soda. A long game of hide and go seek, lost and go seek in the cupboards and the laundry and the closet where there are monsters missing from the shadows. They leave their laughs around every corner, lingering in the dark; I long for the tall one that looks like a gorilla with pebble eyes, ostrich breath and needle teeth, the way I long for pixies in my butterfly net, tea parties with chatty dolls, Piratica in bubbles and Charlie in the cupboards. Gone; all grown up.

Growing Up

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1 Comments

May 08, 2008 - 20:02 PM

crosstheline on
I really love how innocent this is. I re-read this line over many times because I loved it so much; "Every bubble I ever blew pops on pine needles and rose thorns, little bursting pockets of pirates and mermaids and men on moons and safaris and spaceships."