The pains of growth

I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.

-Robert McCloskey

Dear Mai,

Messy.

Life is messy, wouldn't you agree?

I miss the simplicity of childhood. This growing up business is riddled with super-secret-codes that my decoder ring can't seem to break. I find it exhausting and I don't want to play...and you know me, I like to play. Love to play. Crave it. Relish it. Find joy in it.

But...I think I'm getting left behind.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't rub raw in places and hurt. I'd like to keep up, but my stride doesn't seem to be as long as others. Maggie says these are growing pains, but I'm not in favor of these. I can't just go to the cabinet and whip up a remedy. This malady not one that's made of flesh nor bone, joints or tendons. In two words: It sucks.

I miss my best friend.

I don't know what happened. Two months ago we spoke the same language, but now we need a translator/referee. Messy mixed messages have made muddy waters all around. How did this happen? Why?

Hands tied, tongue tied, I'm flailing, failing. I'd just like to be given a chance to uncross the wires and make sense of this sudden wreckage. Any words of wisdom to impart? I'm open to suggestions because I only seem to be making things worse.

Maybe they're going through growing pains too and I should just exact patience...or a righteous hardy smack upside the back of their head. All I know is...I'm ready for simple. Crave it. Relish it. Find joy in it. If I'm having this much trouble with growing pains...what am I going to do when I'm finally asked to grow up?

Scary, huh?

Love Always,

- Ophie

(Not So) Standard, Ordinary

Before me, atop the freshly sanitized table, is a pad of paper. The pad is standard, ordinary. Beside this pad is a battered plastic case whose color of origin is no longer discernible after years of being colored over; this box is used to house crayons, markers, colored pencils and an assortment of pens all which are being offered for my using pleasure.

This offer is one I'll have to refuse because the assignment isn't one I feel I can complete.

They want me to write about my life. The task doesn't seem too complex, I can see that others in the room have really taken to the exercise, but I am stayed, subdued. I see a standard, ordinary pad of paper and while my years have not been long on this earth...I would like to think that it has not been a standard, ordinary life.

And what they don't know - couldn't know - unless I told them...

...is that paper is something reserved for a long distance relationship I've had since I was 5. A place to send secrets, hopes, fears, and dreams - a place to house my not so standard, ordinary life.