The Little Girl

I see a little girl.

This little girl loves dresses, and has one for every day of the week. She wears them, runs around the playground in them, and is friends with everyone. She believes in a God, and a heaven, which she'll go to one day because she is a good Christian girl. If she sees someone by themselves, that little girl will go over to them and exclaim an introduction she has said so many times, to so many people, it has become second nature.

Within a few minutes, that person who has met that girl knows everything about her.

Her name.

Where she lives.

Her phone number.

And the little doll she carries with her, named Beanie.

Oh, and did I mention the twin she has that no one else can see? Callie.

And all she wants, at this moment, is to be baptized.

The little girl comes over to me, and introduces herself with a smile and asks what my name is. I pause, and then tell her the first name that comes to me off the top of my head.

"Nice to meet you!" She says. She tells me her name, where she lives, her phone number, her little doll's name and she a twin sister that no one can see named Callie.

I smile at her, and tell her that is very interesting.

"What do you do?"

It was a question she always asked adults. Adults had interesting jobs and grown up lives.

I tell her I'm a writer.

"Oh! Have I read one of your books before?"

No, you haven't. Not yet. Maybe when you're older.

"Are they grown up books?"

Not exactly grown up, but a little girl her age shouldn't be reading them.

"Why not?" She pouts. This little girl is smart, and is convinced she can read whatever she wants to read. She'll be able to one day, I know that. Just a few more years.

"A few more years? But that's forever."

As you get older, a year becomes a lot shorter.

Her eyes widen when I tell her this excitedly. "So you mean that my birthday will come more often?"

It'll feel that way, yes. And as you get older, you start looking forward to your birthdays less and less, and other things will become more important.

"Like what things?"

How you're going to live out your future.

"Oh, I know!" She seems proud of this. She already has her future planned out, she thinks. Nothing can go wrong. "I'm going to be a teacher!"

A teacher, eh? The pessimist in me says teachers gain little money, have little respect, and no real future. But this little girl is shining with happiness and anticipation to be a grown up, and live out the career that she had decided to be in a moment of extreme pressure. A moment when she had to tell her pre-school teacher her future.

What kind of teacher?

"I'll teach everything!"

She'll have to deal with small children, then. I comment I'm not very good with kids. Or, it feels that way.

And yet she remains here, staring at me, continuing to talk.

"You think so?"

I nod.

"You seem pretty good to me!"

Where did she get this enthusiasm from? Surely not her parents, or her grandparents, or any of her family members. She's a little ball of energy, and I remember where she came from. A mother with bi-polar manic depression, a father who used drugs and robbed convenience stores for quick cash. This little girl doesn't know this, yet, and in a few years she'll have to piece it all together by herself, one by one. The adults won't tell her the story, and this little girl will be too nervous to ask.

Thank you for thinking that.

"You're welcome!" She looks at me again, curiously. "What kind of things do you write?"

The little girl loves stories. She comes up with them all the time, on the playground, playing with Callie and Beanie. Wandering through the jungles looking for a rare lion, though lions live on the savannah. Learning how to use magic to save the prince, since the prince got stupid and thought she, the princess, was the one in need of saving. Traveling the open seas as a Viking to discover Vinland, and their precious grape juice that came from trees. But becoming a writer has never entered her mind.

I tell her. Sad things. About a boy that loves someone he shouldn't love, about people that want to steal a little girl and use her for bad things, about a future in which a lot of people are unhappy but actually think they couldn't be happier.

I write about myself. About a boy who hurt me in horrible ways mentally so he could nurse his own bruised mentality, about how my life was never constant and I moved from place to place, about how I always felt scared and unwanted, and how that fear of being unwanted caused me to lie.

The girl seems a little confused.

"Why don't you write about happy things?"

It's an odd question. I stare at her for awhile, pondering.

It's healing.

"Oh, so you're sick."

In the head? Surely.

"Well, it was nice talking to you!" She has a short attention span. She can't stay focused on one person for long, especially a person like me. The little girl waves her hand, then Beanie's hand, then tells me that Callie is waving too. "You should write about happy things sometime!"

I tell her I will.

She leaves me on my park bench, back towards a swing on the swing set that had just become open. She struggles into the seat, still holding onto Beanie, giggling and swinging her legs back in forth in no pattern trying to gain momentum.

This little girl doesn't know it yet, but she's me.

Reviews

[Robyn]

oh my goodness i am so glad i took the time to read this lovely little story! this was just fabulous.
the zealous little girl reminds me so much of me.

i love how your portrayed the accurate difference of an adult and a childs perspective. this is a very insightful piece.

great work, thanks so much for sharing