My ten year old sister, Sophia, asks me these questions as i read to her the story of Ovid's transformation. Sitting on the phone, laying in bed knowing that she is hundreds of miles away in her own bed in our old house with our old mother, listening to my voice; to the story she has never heard before but heard a milllion life times ago. How can i answer her? All these questions are my own, coming to life for me through the innocent mind of my baby sister.
I tell her that the child is me, that he lives in all grown ups but we don't know it. I tell her that she is more like the child today at ten years old then i have been in over a decade. She laughs at me and reminds me that we are not boys, we are girl. I smile and tell her thank you for reminding me for i had forgotten, in my best sarcastic but loving tone.
She does not understand me and my pathetic attemps at being deep but i know in my heart that the story of the child is the story of her youth. Growing older, leaving the world of immagination and creativity behind for one that is dark and opressive i have begun to forget. Living within the bounds of society, trying to be an adult myself, i see what i have lost when i look at her. When for a brief moment i remember what it is like to see the world through her eyes. Eyes that see possiblity and dreams when she looks into the afternoon clouds compared with my eyes, that simply think of the coming rain and what it will do for my already flooded lawn.
How can i ge that back? That is my qestion; how can i have her eyes and my mind as i continue to experiecne life she has not begun to even think of.
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