I wrote this last year. It was very much spur of the moment, and just kind of poured out of me. It could use a little editing, but for now here's the unedited version.
It's raining outside today. Late afternoon turning into early evening;
the street lamps are already on. It's spring so rain isn't out of the
ordinary. I sit at my window perched above the street. Rain drops make
ripples in the dozens of puddles, on the sidewalk, in the street. I
glance down and there's a little girl - she's jumping in puddles. So
innocent and sweet, with her rubber boots, jacket and umbrella. They all
match, pretty red with white polka-dots. She's blonde, and someday I
know she'll be beautiful.
She is the only child on a residential
street full of adults. We've all grown up, she has no siblings. Her
parents let her play alone. She has no friends here, except for the ones
in her head. She has plenty, and they are enough; they keep her happy.
Sometimes I sit back and wonder, try to remember what it was like to be
innocent. It's hard when you've seen the world, seen the good bad and
the ugly. But mainly the ugly. Maybe it's just me. But that's all I ever
see.
I wonder if the little girl will grow up to be an introvert,
like me. Will she be able to tell people her problems? I hope so. I
wouldn't want her innocence to be lost, I wouldn't want her to lose
faith in the world, in society. The way the rest of the street has. Not
many youth around, I'm one of the youngest. The rest, a bunch of
time-weathered weary adults who've grown old too fast with a bleak view
of society and don't care enough to change the world they so hate.
But I just sit here and watch. I watch them hate it, watch them gossip,
watch them grow older. I watch them care less, but more about the
perfectly manicured lawn, the fancy car in the driveway. Because that's
all they have. So I watch. I watch the little girl jumping in puddles.
Her parents have become corrupted by the rest of them, you know. They
don't care anymore. They don't spend time outside with her. The
unfinished treehouse in the backyard stands testament to how no one
cares to bother anymore. But she still jumps in puddles, and talks aloud
to the friends she's invented in her mind. I wish it were that simple,
and I wish she'd never have to look back on it like I do. But I know she
will.
Her friends aren't perfect. That is what makes her special,
different. They don't always listen to what she has to say. They don't
always agree with her - on what game to play, what song to sing, when
it's time to go home. But this adds to the concern of the street's
society. Is she crazy, they ask. I want to scream and shout and my
emotions are a whirlwind of anger and contempt and say she's only five
years old!
But.
They won't listen.
Because they never do.
They don't have to.
After years of sitting back, they don't bother.
And I think that's sad.
I remember the days that I could jump in puddles like the little girl.
It was one of my favourite things to do. Rainy days were my favourite.
Now I hate them. I can't jump in puddles, because it would be frowned
upon. I'm too old. I grew up too fast, but these days, so does everyone.
I see girls giving themselves away to the first guy, they don't care.
No one cared to tell them how special it's supposed to be, so why should
they care?
No one gives credit to children. They see so much more than us most of the time. They aren't stupid. We can learn from them.
But instead we're obsessed.
With teaching them.
Teaching them all the time, asserting our authority, putting ourselves
high above the rest like cleopatra or the roman gods and goddesses of
whom we, incidentally, tell stories about.
Soul crushers, that's
what they've all become. They crushed mine long ago. I can't watch her
soul get crushed. She has a big soul, big heart. She cares. She tells
other people to care. Tries to show them how.
But they just
Don't
Listen.
And still she carries on, as if to say 'their loss', which, it is.
And now she jumps in puddles, with her umbrella and doll, and the friends so real to her that we just can't see.
As I'm watching her something begins to happen. There's a flash of
color and I see blue but when I blink it's grey again. And raining. And
she's still jumping.
But then the sky is falling fast and hard but
she keeps jumping, she can't hear it. She doesn't notice she doesn't see
it, why doesn't she see it! I cry out to her, panes of glass and meters
of distance separating us I know she can't hear me. The sky falls on
top of her and I can see her little doll in hand, her feet sticking out
from beneath the piece of grey. There's a hole in the sky now but I
don't care, I need go help the girl.
I'm running and there's wind in
my hair, and colors surround me but I know it's a grayscale world
today. They all stand around and stare at the giant piece of sky and the
little girl, but oh God why don't they help!
I rush to her side
and try to move the sky but it is heavy with the burdens of a million
and three souls. I try and no one helps, they just watch. One says not
to bother, it's better that way.
Her parents are still in the house.
They don't know
Or
They just don't care.
But they should.
Because the sky fell down on a little girl jumping in puddles. She had
imaginary friends that had problems the same way she, you and I do. She
wore a red rain jacket with red rubber boots and held a matching red
umbrella. The sky fell down that day and now there is a hole where it
used to be. That hole may never get filled. The sky fell down.
Written by Amanda Hunt
