She loved pickles and pudding and rocks that glittered. And forts that touched the ceiling.
She mastered shadow puppets on night walls and Carol Burnett’s Tarzan yell in lieu of bedtime stories.
In her innocent mind, the bogey man hid in the closet because he was scared of her. Thus she coaxed him out nightly with “shh . . . it’s okay, you’re alright.”
She mailed letters to the mailman with sticky hearts on both sides and Cheerios in the envelope.
She regularly asked our 96-year-old neighbor Mr. Grayson if he wanted to play hopscotch on Saturdays.
When men landed on the moon, she stared out her window, waving and blowing kisses to them. She told me they were dancing with the stars while drinking milkshakes.
She was at ease with herself. Until she wasn’t.
That’s when the world got hold of her and began to deconstruct her simple views.
And one day she stopped looking for glittery rocks because someone told her it wasn’t real glitter and that rocks didn’t shine when they were dry.
And forts no longer captivated her. They were just sheets without any magic beneath them.
And shadow puppets were silly and nobody knew who Carol Burnett was.
And the bogeyman now stayed underneath her bed and trapped her into silence until we banished him each night.
There was nothing to send to the mailman because he was supposed to do the sending.
And Mr. Grayson passed away without ever hopping into square #1.
And the moon didn’t have a man or a smile or cheese. It was just a moon that subbed for the sun when she was supposed to be sleeping.
I want this person’s name.
I want my baby back.