Healing My Inner Child

I walk through the long hallway,

And up the winding dusty stairs,

A sense of deja vu tingling my spine,

Yet something, someone, draws me onward.

I get to the top and see many doors,

But I know which one to enter.

I push the door open gently,

Trying not to make a creak

Yet the sound cries out,

A figure in the dark jerks in response.

I see her small frame,

She's sitting on a bed in the back of the room,

Eyes downcast and back hunched over.

I walk slowly toward her and sit on the bed.

She looks up and studies me for a few seconds,

In awe, or shock, a sense of surprise.

"We're still alive?"  She asks, voice horse from crying.

I know such a young child, probably only nine

Shouldn't have these kinds of thoughts but

I reach for her hand.

"Yes,"  I reply, not knowing if I should add more.

She sniffs, hope or despair I cannot tell.

"Does it go away?"  She asked, tears brimming her eyes.

"No.  But it hurts less than it used to.  It becomes bearable to live again."

I pulled her into my arms.

She was still me, but she had passed.