One Little Girl

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who didn't have many friends - not even imaginary ones; she talked to herself. She fed voraciously on books and dreams and fresh milk, and her childhood was filled with ballet, art, and music classes. She loved pink, and her bedroom walls had silky wall-papers of a pink-on-pink rose motif.

She loved cats and dogs dearly and desperately wished for a pet. Because her daddy was asthmatic and because her mommy had an aversion to all animals, she never did get the puppy or kitten she wanted; instead, her parents bought her a tiny terrapin she wished she could cuddle.

Sometimes, she wondered if she weren't a in a story book or comic book: maybe even the very moment as she was wondering that, her thoughts were materializing as words on a page or in a speech bubble, and maybe there were somebody reading them - maybe another little girl. She wanted very much to read this story book of her life herself, and wondered if she ever would.

Sometimes, she thought about what she would like to be when she grew up. Maybe a ballerina, maybe an artist, or maybe a veterinarian (even though she had a phobia of lizards and frogs); but she didn't think about this too often - she didn't like to think about growing up and becoming an adult.

There was one night that she laid in her bed and ruminated about the future. When she thought about herself growing up and her parents growing old, she suddenly realized her parents would one day grow too old and die, and she would be all alone in the world with her little sister whom she mostly fought with. Then she grew anxious and fearful.

The more she imagined herself alone in the world (bratty little sister notwithstanding), the greater her fears and horror grew ... until she finally burst in tears. To reassure herself, she ran to her parents' bedroom and shook her daddy awake. Her daddy woke and asked why she was crying, and she told him. He scolded her for being a silly little girl who thought too much, and told her the future was still far away for her. When her tears subsided into hiccups and sniffles, he tucked her back in bed.

They never spoke of this incident again, but she never did forget it.

I write this for the little girl, so she may finally read a story of her life, even though it is a story that she already knows and may have read.

But - who knows? - maybe she is really now reading about how I'm sitting in my little studio this night, typing into my laptop and listening to music; maybe she has already turned the page and is reading about what I will dream about tonight, and what I will be having for breakfast tomorrow.

Little girl, if you're reading this, will you please turn a few pages more and tell me what I'll be when I grow up?