You With Your Fresh Thoughts

The line for New Moon at the theatre next door crossed in front of the entrance and beyond, hoards of teenagers waiting to watch the summer of their minds. I knew where the wild things were--the place you went when the pains of growing had nowhere to go but to a seasonless land. I built tents on my bed, forts in closets, had a room full of dollhouses, my own room a dollhouse when I couldn't sleep--I knew how to make a whole world. I knew how to smash something and put it back together. Do a dance for my parents and make them smile again. I could say a story and they would write it down. The Goldengrove loses its leaves and a young child, if she notices, doesn't know why it makes her sad. Innocence will disappear though, like the clearing of the forest of the world as she grows older, and perception will inform her tears. But for now, for now, neither mouth nor mind need know it is for herself, and not the leaves she grieves. I can build something beautiful out of the wilderness, smash paper hearts, rebuild them with twigs, and sail back home.