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It’s funny, this thing called life,
where did all the years go, so long, long ago
in a pastel pink bedroom with pastel pink curtains
and a pastel pink elephant resting on her pillow
and the room that seemed so large?
There were frogs in the backyard when they came home
from church at night, and the mother always made her,
the daughter, go to the back, through the back door,
through the living room, to open the front door.
Funny, even to this day, she doesn’t know why
they entered the house that way.
Funny, how life holds such mysteries,
like when did the little girl separate from the grown one?
And why couldn’t she go on being little, rocking in
her wooden chair, pleased by the rifting scent of curry
slipping under the space of the closed bedroom door like
a ghost, mixed with the faint harmonies of the Kingston Trio?
Once upon a time, there was a girl named Linda
who was the little girl’s best friend. They pretended
to be sisters, laughing as they walked down the street
in their pink and yellow striped shirts, matching like
twins, eager to turn in their coca cola bottles for a nickel
to buy Hershey’s chocolate bars, wearing half of it, melted,
smeared, but delicious like rainbows.
Games of hopscotch, tether ball, handball, red light-green light, barbies, paper dolls, jacks, red rover, duck-duck-goose, and perhaps the most fun of all, playing “house” and getting to be the parent. Funny, transforming into the ever diligent parent with everything under control. Funny, isn’t it, those days, endless, never-ceasing, infinite…except for one thing: it was a lie, for we learned soon enough, that life indeed, marched on to new horizons. There really was no “happily ever after” like Cinderella and SnowWhite.
Life came to us.
Or did we come to life? We play by the rules, we smile,
we laugh, we cry, we wish, we fail, we try.
All that was, and all that is, blend together, weaving memories spun of gossamer thread. The giant stone pathway of life has etched the way, and there is yesterday, but there is no going back. There is today, but no skipping to tomorrow. One waits. One has to, there is no choice. And the clock quietly ticks. And now, it is ten minutes later than it was. Later, the lights will dim and the night will suspend all but our dreams, until we awaken to a new day.
Funny, how life is that way. Kind of like a pink haze of yesterdays.
© 2015 Essie