I pull out two chairs. One for me.
One for the girl who didn’t want
to become a woman. The girl
who, at night, would use tweezers
to pull out any hairs that tried to grow
where her skin had always been smooth.
The girl who tied a bandana around
the small lumps of her breasts
to keep them from growing.
The girl who wanted to believe
she could stay a girl. I know
she would rather be outside
by the lake, fishing. Or exploring
the woods, looking for treasures.
Or making potions out of bark and grass
and berries in her mom’s old silver pot.
But she sits here with me, awkward,
slouching a little to pretend she isn’t so tall.
She tells me she wants to be a poet. How she
loves to play with words. How she knows
the other kids tease her behind her back.
How she sometimes thinks she might disappear
into light when the sun streaks through the clouds.
I just listen and nod. I know exactly how she feels.
I know she won’t believe me if I tell her
she’ll lose the battle with the hair.
That the bandana trick worked, perhaps too well.
That the joy she finds in writing will never leave her.
That she’ll forget the names of the kids
who teased her, but she’ll always remember
what they said. And despite all these tethers,
she’ll learn to disappear into the light,
to give herself completely to the world.
It will be so beautiful.
But for now, this reluctance,
this longing to remain a girl,
this certainty that there is magic
here in childhood that she never wants to lose.