When
I was ten years old, I ran around chasing fireflies, carrying rocks in my
pockets, "playing pretend" and never really knowing what time it was. Sometimes I miss walking around in plastic
heels, one of my mother’s bridesmaid dresses falling off my shoulder. Sometimes I miss sprinting away from boys
because they had cooties, skipping rope and singing about imaginary things that
never disappeared. Sometimes I miss chocolate
chip pancakes every Saturday morning. Sometimes
I miss waking up when the sun rose, and walking barefoot through the morning
dewy grass. Sometimes I miss story time
right before bed, curled up on my parent’s big bed, reading story after
story. Sometimes I miss watching the
stars at night, making pictures in the sky.
Sometimes I miss dreaming of becoming things we were naïve enough to
believe. Sometimes I miss making stories
out of anything from clothespins to ornaments on the Christmas tree. Sometimes I miss being the girl everyone was
envious of. Sometimes I miss only being
afraid of those summer thunderstorms at night.
Sometimes I miss being certain despite living in a world of uncertainty. A decade later, it’s amazing how things
change. I run around chasing time,
carrying hopes and regrets in my pockets, playing “grownup” and never really
knowing how much time is left.