As a Child

I think sometimes there is a place inside me that is missing, or I am missing part of myself--the part that is perfect, and does all the things I know I should do.
The part of me that smiles, and without hesitation says, Youre forgiven. The heart of me that thinks no evil and judges no one: the innocent heart.
I sometimes think I have walked away from simpler things, to find complex ones with many layers of confusion. Sometimes its hard to imagine that I was a child once, who thought that fairies were real; waited up late to watch out the window for Santa Claus to come sweeping through the sky; or hopped off my bicycle to lie in the grass and interpret cloud formations. Who believed that everyone possessed a gift for me inside, if I could reach deep enough into their hearts.
Who hasnt planted a seed as a child, expecting it to grow? And now, as an adult, I just hope it will. You get a goldfish as a child, thinking it will live forever-- everything lives forever. One day of making sandcastles would make any disappointment disappear. Maybe I am missing the child inside of me that believed, unwaveringly. The child who knew if I fell, someone would be there to pick me up. The child who trusted. The child who found every new spring a miracle: and left bullnettle nuts to crack open in the sun, knowing they would be there the next day, bursting open. Who always seemed to find a Monarch butterfly perched on the petals of a Black-eyed Susan; who jumped in rain puddles; chased shadows on the walk, and dragonflies; drank nectar from the honeysuckle stems; rescued strays without worrying about diseases; laughed with abandon; twirled in the grass until I fell over dizzy; blew bubbles in my milk; made a word with alphabet soup; wrote wash me on dirty automobiles, wrote love notes in the sand, wanted glass slippers like Cinderella--who dreamed of who shed be one day.
I hope I havent disappointed that child of dreams.

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