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a requiem for childhood innocence    • written for, from, and by jodie.

 

I spend weeks at a time behind curtains and wide palms,

desperately searching for the girl with a lampshade on her head.

She shines bright, perfectly blends in, and wins every game.

We see it on TV: adults pretending they can't see pinky toes under draped curtains.

But not my princess-heeled "half-singer, half-actress".

She wins because the tooth-fairy sprinkled luck on her pillow last night.

 

Please, if you can find her.

She's about this high - with a glistening hope in her eyes.

And her nails are sparkly navy: the same colour the world becomes when she closes them. 

You'll find her skipping, or hopping, or jumping,

whether in hopscotch,

or with her "hips are hurting" dance moves from the senior citizen retired in her funny old soul.

She's a potential-filled butterfly, but she's not cucooned in her sleeping bag this time.

I checked.

For all I know, she could be anywhere, doing anything.

When she really puts her mind to it.

 

I need her. 

I need a pinch of her courage now,

just enough to believe she's built paper boats you can float in.

And for every secret she's encrypted in invisble ink,

I hope she's turning dreams into reality with pink mermaids as we speak.

Maybe she'll return with pearl necklaces exchanged with coral. 

Or maybe, if I keep peeking up her favourite trees,

or sit and wait to see if money starts growing from them, 

she'll find her way back to me. 

But for now... 

 

I really just can't find her.

 

And I have no idea if I'm fine with it.

Not that I have much choice to be.

Nobody knew she was leaving, so nobody came looking for her.

And nobody knows she's gone.

But I do. And I Iove her. And I long her.

And sometimes,

even in hours dark, or sparkly navy. 

I catch a glimpse of a girl I've seen between tiny waves in massive puddles.

And just for a second, as I'm thinking of tiny paper boats,

it feels like she never left. 

 

For wherever she is,

and however she got there,

I feel in my soul, she's safe and sound.

Even on days I don't want to believe it,

and on days I've blamed Gods I don't believe in.

I can picture her now,

comfortable.

Asleep in silent lucidity.

Wrapped in her father's arms,

settled after beard-prickly kisses.

 

With a lampshade on her head.