Bubbles

I sat in my room today and blew bubbles from a bubble wand I picked up at walmart. Just because. The nostalgia comes back for me of being a kid again. Not in an immature way but, nostalgia without the internet overload. There were times I would sit and turn on the radio to the latest hits.

I never lost my inner child. I’m still imaginative and playful. I’m also independent. I rewind to the days where if I hated the song or ad I would skip to another channel. Most days I would hear the crows cawing knowing it was sometime in the afternoon. Sometimes I would walk looking up at the power lines and wander.

Most of my hometown was a coastal community. I remembered in 3rd grade arguing about apple turnovers.

Our classroom was light up by the banners announcing the months with a cursive chart on the chalk board. I was at my desk picking at my name tag, ” thats not real. Apple turnovers don’t exist.”

Little kid me had never seen or heard about an apple turnover. None of the bakeries around I had seen them. I’d never actually bothered to read the signs neatly placed next to the pastry.

” yeah they do exist. You’ve never seen one so you wouldn’t know.”

The new kid Asher bragged. I pouted, ” they don’t exist.” The argument lasted for a solid 4 minutes. I was in a bubble a time capsule in my hometown where news was slow, but gossip traveled like wildfire. It seemed like I was stuck a few years ago until I got onto the other shore.

The nurse would be my excuse. Surely if they couldn’t see I had a stomachache I could rest awhile while my little kid mind wrestled with, “apple turnovers are real.” Annoying Asher.

Lunch outside under the cherry blossoms were the best days in the spring. The battle of who to sit with was an entirely different story. Did I want to sit with my crush? My friends? Alone? With my pal who at recess we would pretend to build a time machine. Or the kids at recess where we became jungle animals and picked sides. Both leaders were very intimidating. One was the cats group and the other I think was any animal.

I sat quietly to eat my burger. Hot lunch. My mother had “claimed” I was allergic to wheat soy and eggs and dairy. Chocolate milk on Fridays. It was an outdoor cookout. Sitting under the cherry blossoms was fun.

Before the drama of the girls silenced my solitude. “Wanna hang out after school let’s practice the dance.” I sighed knowing I wouldn’t be able to split myself in two. Both equally fierce friends wanted to hang out but not all as a group.

I would log onto my computer at home to play fun games. Lucky for me they only had my landline number. An hour of computer or TV. Totally Spies was on. My crush.. I’d never reveal on that online.

Mandy would be the dramatic character I would learn to not become. Courage the Cowardly Dog would give me nightmares. I would smile when the year was over. Another teacher another set of challenges.

Dinner would be a gluten free slice of bread with rice cheese. Burnt. My mother wasn’t the best cook but I ate. Soon learning how to cook losing my appetite over the chared grilled cheeses cut into 4 mini slices.

My childhood was nothing but ordinary. Class began with the pledge as we sat down. 4th grade where we would see the special birthday student on live TV

“Happy Birthday to Noah.” They would hand him a blue badge as the pixels on the TV wavered, ” the weather today is..” I looked to the side to catch a glimpse of the class bully looking at me. My eyes glanced at my crush and then away. I couldn’t help it.

The unscrewed potent expo marker squealed across the board, ” today we will be writing about your perfect day.” The class murmered. I looked to the side unsure what I would write about. Could I make it up? No she would know. My perfect day? So I wrote in illegible cursive. I had a bad habit of putting hearts on my I.

I scribbled and wrote in all caps. Messy, ” my perfect day would be watching the fireflies while sitting onto of the blue Subaru while eating spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread.”

Anyone reading this would have questioned my childhood. Even reading it back gives me shock. Every other kid wrote about a vacation or going to the aquarium. As for me? Common household meals and watching fireflies.

My mom never had garlic bread or meatballs or spaghetti. I had only eaten it from hot lunch. That was luxury to me. A real meal. Fridays became pizza night. My mom Friends would come over and we would have dinner as a family?

When my childhood took a turn for the worse I began to change emotionally. I blamed myself. I sat with adults to comfort them. Not understanding how grief shaped me.

When I look back I want to hug myself. In many ways it showed me how to have compassion for others going through grief. That scar lasted into my adulthood and would never be repaired. I would sit and say words for a very mature child, ” she loved you. She cared about you. It’s okay to cry. She would be so proud of you for carrying yourself as an adult. I didn’t know her personally but she seems like a beautiful person.”

Her tears would fall like crystals catching the rain. I would breathe and be emotionally honest as well as compassionate. My long black hair pulled back, ” I’m here for you. Take all the time you need.” My seven year old mind held her hand and sat in silence.

“You’re carrying the world you know that?” She knew I had carried deep wounds. I smiled, “What’s that even mean?” I hid the shame behind a mask. I knew the burden. Playing on the monkey bars. I wanted to be a kid without that nasty scrape.

The part that heals my inner child isn’t imature. It’s the child that never fully healed a fracture. Without my inner child I wouldn’t have been able to be carefree in a world of suppression.

My mother who raised me grew me into a very intelligent emotional being. She reflected all that I didn’t want to be. A sigh escaped my lips, “let’s rewrite the story. Pick up the pen and flow.”

That’s what I love about writing. I can show up when I want to write. I can create without restraint. I can be the creative inner child I was meant to be. By using inspiration. Honestly I didn’t have a prompt in mind but in the end I was glad to write a little. 💗

I tend to journal when I reflect. Hopefully my stories bring you inspiration, courage and a spark of passion. That’s all for now. It’d game time. Time to race in game or play my dress up game. 💕 hopefully i’ll get to write more. Im sure I will.