I wish we could back, to when I knew who I was.
I had flowers in my hair, a soccer ball at my feet, and a home I never thought I would leave.
I had ferns tucked in my tightly knuckled fist, forget-me-nots in Polaroid pictures hidden away, moss fairy gardens in twisty forests, and traditions and names only we knew.
I had an older brother I knew inside and out.
We had our language of childhood, written in the scrapes on our knees, the twisty sticks in our fists, the cloth tied around our heads, and the forts we build inside the woods we called home.
Take me back to then.
Where things we simpler.
Before “five minutes” became never, and “just gimme a sec” became “don’t bother me.”
It’s like I’m having to learn a language, and all the translations equal, “Leave me alone.”
Why did we outgrow easy names, with eight letters, and lots of vowels?
When did I grow up?