“Memory believes before knowing remembers.” ~ Faulkner

I miss flavored lip gloss and pens that write in strawberry-scented ink.

I miss drinking out of the hose on a hot summer day. I miss grass stains on my feet and blackberry stains on my fingers.

I miss having someone else buy my clothes.

I miss not knowing how much I weigh.

I miss wanting to tell people how old I am.

I miss thinking I’d never survive whatever it was I was sure I would never survive.

I miss the smell of Mr. Bubble, Bactine and Deep Woods Off.

I miss these:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I miss putting too much sugar on already-sugared cereal.

I miss lying awake at night and imagining what I’d be like when I was much older and sophisticated, like sixteen.

I miss noticing stuff, like ants and squirrels and funny-shaped rocks and smells and dusk.

I miss wanting the phone to be for me when it rang. I miss it never being for me.

I miss not knowing what’s really going on.

I miss the smell of these:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I miss knowing what I wanted for Christmas, I miss telling everyone within a 50-mile radius what I wanted for Christmas, I miss leaving notes around the house for my parents about what I wanted for Christmas, I miss writing long, detailed letters to Santa about what I wanted for Christmas, and I miss the thrill on Christmas morning when I got it.

I miss the first day of school. I miss the smell of pencil shavings and new notebooks and stiff new jeans.

I miss looking forward to whatever came next, instead of bracing for it.

I suppose buried beneath all this missing is the rich blessing of having been a normal child, a happy, odd little bookworm who took her simple life for granted because she could. Still, though… I miss it.