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Thursday, May 8, 2008

Writing Practice: 10 minutes

Note: *This is a blurb that came out during a ten-minute writing practice. It is in its raw, unedited form. The prompt for this particular piece was an object my little girls had placed in a box...a small plastic castle filled with glittery-little-girl makeup. For more information on writing practice, click on the heading writing practice at the top of the page.

Oh the beauty and sweetness of little girls and their glitter; little girls and their rainbow-colored fairy wings, little girls who lie awake at night wondering if this will be the night the fairies come and sprinkle them with fairy dust so they too can fly.

What is it like to be young and new at it all? To be seeing things for the first time, to know so little and want so much. I wish I could remember better those days when I was young. What do I remember?

I see the chunky little girl I was with the pigtails and freckles, taking walks by myself at the age of three. My mother said I insisted that I go alone. She would watch my small body disappear over the hill and would wonder where it was that I would go. I wonder now what drove me to go off alone at such a young age. Was there something I was looking for even then? Did I think it was around the corner, on the other side of the street, just over the hill?

As I write now, I know there was nothing I was looking for, nothing material anyway. What I did want and knew I could find on those quiet little walks, was time to myself; time to be with my curious little mind, time to look at the cracks in the sidewalks and the tall-rooted trees. I wanted a reprieve from all the noise they made, all the earth-shattering fear they both had and couldn't help but pass to their young children.

They were just children themselves, afraid to look themselves in the mirror, afraid to admit they had no idea who they were, afraid to admit they shouldn't be where they found themselves-married at the age of eighteen, pregnant too soon, lost inside their tired bodies. They were just kids and still needed to be taken care of by the beings who had never done it right.

Yes. I walked away from that, toward the sunlight, around the corner toward the rooted trees, a few steps away from his anger and her silence and their refusal to pick it all up and start again.

My mom said that when I was two-ish, she would come home from working those late-night shifts and I would be, once again, standing up in my crib saying over and over again, Mommy, I don't understand. Mommy I don't understand.

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♥ Julia