The dollar store barbie dolls fashioned with my own sewings sleep atop one another. The stuffed hand me down animals lay lifelessly on their backs. My first baby doll still wearing the marker makeup I painted on her face so long ago. So many lost childhood items, and yet there's one thing I seek.

I remove each item from the top carefully: toys, 25 cent vending machine jewelry, skates, worn out shoes, fake makeup, dress up clothes, an old tea set, and various other items as I slowly make my way to its depths.

"She has to be here somewhere," I say as I dig deeper into the chest, removing photographs of my grandparents, a framed picture of my once happy family, a bottle of joy, a capsule of peace, and a canister of hope.

"Where could she be, come on." I'm almost at the bottom of the chest when I remove a white dress that belonged to my mother, and I would later use to pretend to be a bride. I raise it up and take in its simplicity and beauty. It's old in its fashion, but the sparkles remain intact along with its long trained veil. Memories flood of a young me, twirling in front of the mirror pretending to be a bride, hoping for a love like the one my parents once shared. I smile when the dress is snatched from my hand followed by a child's laughter.

There she is.

She twirls with the dress as her short, bouncy curls float in the air, and her dimples sink deep into her cheeks. So young, so innocent, so...pure.

"There you are," I say as she stares up at me with her deep green-blue eyes, full of promise and hope.

"Here I am," she giggles, "aren't I the prettiest bride? I'm going to marry the handsomest man and be in movies, and have kids, and have lots of money to buy 25 ponies."

"25 ponies? Don't you think thats a little too much?" I tease.

"No because I'm going to have a big house with a huge stable for the ponies, and lots of puppies. Oh, and a giant pool I can swim in whenever I want."

"Is that so?" I ask.

"Yes! when I'm a grown-up, I'll have everything I ever wanted and more. Maybe I'll even be a famous singer or...or a writer. My teacher says I'm the best writer in class, and I should write more stories."

I smile. I look at her studying every curvature of her face. The untainted skin and eyes full of so much life. Joy that can't be disrupted no matter the chaos. She always finds the good in everything...and everyone. She's everything I used to be...until I lost her.

"Well?" she asks as she fashions her dress in front of the mirror, "what do you want?"

A simple yet deep question. What do I want? I used to know, but somewhere along the journey I lost it. Dreams died. Hopes laid to rest. Pain deepened, and what I wanted didn't matter. I lost it. I lost her. The little girl who had big hopes and dreams, who looked at everything with wonder and possibility, soon replaced by a 30-year-old woman filled with fear and harsh realities.

"Well, I wanted to find you, and I did."

"Me? Why?" she says, crinkling her eyebrows in confusion.

"Because" I say picking up and putting on a familiar red dress that fits perfectly now. I grab the tea set in the corner of the treasure chest and set it on the ground, "I wanted to have a dress up tea party, and thought you'd be the perfect person to have it with. Are you in?"

She squeals with delight as she snatches the baby doll, the barbies and a few stuffed animals to join the party.

I admire her as she pours invisible liquid into the plastic tea cups, oblivious to the world that's falling apart around her. She doesn't have much, yet she has everything she needs, and big dreams for everything she wants.

"Will you tell me a story?" she asks.

"A story? Well, aren't you the best writer in class? Shouldn't you be telling me a story?" I say.

"Please?" she begs with her puppy-dog eyes. Damn, I was good.

"Okay," I say, "how about a story about a girl who loses her favorite dream and goes on an adventure to find it?"

"How does someone lose a dream?" she asks skeptically.

"How about you pour me some tea, and I'll tell you."

Her dimples sink deeply into her cheeks as she excitedly pours the tea, and I begin the story.

"Once upon a time, there was a girl who had a dream..."

Challenge

Challenge of the Month XLI

Begin a story or poem about your first memory, but write it in the style of a Tarantino or Charlie Kaufman screenplay. Where it goes from there, use any style you want. Open the belly, bleed on the page. Winner gets 100 big ones. Go.

Leighinthewild

46 reads

oreo cheesecake

I used to write you cards with little hearts and stick men.

I'd draw cards with hearts and clouds and a picture of us.

I would seal it up and slip it under your door saying 'I Love You."

My small hands used to grip yours as I said "I Love You."

My first moment of consciousness I remember believing that I'd always love you.

Now I'm older I find myself fumbling over those three little words.

I stutter when I use it.

I drop the "I", thinking 'love ya' is easier to say.

Because now that I'm older I don't know how to say "I love you."

I miss the days when it was simple.

I miss the days of childhood innocence.

I miss believing in love.

How do I say I love you now I'm older?

Little pictures just won't do.

I'm too old to hold your hand or sit on your lap.

How do I say I love you?

I wish I could go back in time.

Back to the old days sitting on the speckled green countertops.

The kitchen window open; crushing Oreo's for a cheesecake crust.

In that moment of childhood consciousness, I knew it was never going to be easier than it was in that moment.

I knew with white floral bowl in your hands; you stirring the mixture; dancing to some heart broken love sick bachata balled that life was not always going to be this way.

With my legs too far from the ground to reach the floor, my mind far from fully conscious. I remembered feeling strangely sad.

Because the moment was fleeting.

This perfection was temporary.

When you dipped your finger in the batter and dolloped it on my nose saying "I love you."

I knew I'd always keep that memory close.

We never made Oreo cheesecake again.

Rightly so.

And after that day I clung to childhood innocence.

Hanging on by a thread.

Waiting for the day the thread snapped, telling me my time was up.

Childhood was over.

The thread snapped its frayed edges I held close to, perhaps that's the reason I still don't know how to say, "I love you."