Being Certain

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.