I can’t remember the last time I laced up my scuffed roller skates or rode my bike outside. The cornflower shade of blue is slowly fading, and the pedals have bore a layer of rust. The old stickers I have yet to peel only remind me of those old summer days in 2019 when the pavement was warm and the wind whistled past me. The bike I spent endless hours riding on the weekends now collects dust in my garage, and the barbies I once cherished are now left untouched by time and tucked away in three boxes labeled ‘Childhood Toys.’ Their vibrant worlds are confined to the stillness of clear plastic storage containers that somehow transport me back to the serenity I felt as a child. They haven’t been picked up since I was probably 11, and I can’t remember the last time I played ‘pretend’ or went to the mall looking for my favorite toy instead of clothes and boring new shoes.
My art supplies are now propped up on my desk like decor, and I don’t think I remember how to watercolor anymore. Stiff wooden paint bristles tainted of red and yellow from the piece I last painted. It feels as though the very essence of my childhood has slipped away. The hobbies that kept me grounded.
I’m 19, yes, but I don’t know what brings me joy anymore. At least not the joy I got when my mom would buy me another stuffed animal or glue for the slime I rushed to make as soon as I got back home. The blissful emotions are now only captured through film and old pictures when I didn’t try to force the perfect smile or fix my hair in the mirror after every flicker and flash. I wish I could replicate the joy I’d feel running in the playground, getting home, and finding wood chips in my shoes. I can’t remember the last time I chose an outfit so outrageously mismatched and still wore it because it made me happy and it was my favorite color.
And as I get older, I hate this part of growing up because I can’t distinguish when or what changed. Why I don’t use my old sketch books anymore, or when my closet became so dull and boring; it almost feels like it doesn’t belong to me. There’s no bright or colorful pieces. The little girl in me is so repressed I only have fragments of her left. I see a piece of her every time I begin to doodle on my math workbook and when I use my stickers on random pages instead of collecting them for the “perfect” use. I see her whenever I wake up to frizzy wavy hair that gives me trouble the same way it did when I was nine. The frizz of my hair brings me back to that little version of me who came back from the playground tired but happy. Tangled hair and grass stains on my shorts, but a smile was always plastered on my face. I guess childhood is the goodbye I never got to say, and while I will always reminisce, a piece of me feels joy and satisfaction knowing those memories will never collect dust or be left to decay. I’m 19, and I know that little girl in me is hidden, but I’m slowly starting to feel like her again.