Childhood Sweetheart
Back then, when life was simpler, I thought nothing of the wilderness coming to my front porch to greet me every morning. I thought nothing of the birds and rabbits talking to me and my friends who did not exist. I ran through the woods and the swamps of my mind, tearing across fields with the sun beating down on me. Laughing and smiling down at me, the sun and I became fast friends.
When night fell, the moon introduced itself to me, with its star and constellation bowtie, its black suit of the night sky. I curtsied back at him and went about my way, into the warmth of my dimly lit house. Staring out of my bedroom window at night, I saw the moon. Full and round, he winked at me whenever I blinked. I kept my eyes open as long as I could, until they filled with water and squeezed themselves shut. That’s when the moon would jokingly wink at me, and I would laugh, knowing he was doing it to humor me. I stared at him, and wordlessly begged him to brighten. And he would. I would ask him, without moving my lips, to dim, and he would.
We played this game from my bedroom window every night. For hours, we would go back and forth, with me asking and him executing, for years. We were friends, childhood sweethearts, the moon and I. However, as little girls do, I grew up. And I forgot about the moon and the birds and the rabbits and everything I grew up with. I moved on to real things, real people, real issues. I learned to hate, learned to act happy, learned to reject nature and embrace the cold, mechanical ways of society. All around me, the woods and trees were cut down. The swamp was filled in and turned into a parking lot for a department store where women flocked. Jewelry and high heeled shoes replaced my imagination and passion. My imaginary friends became real, mean, rich girls who wore dark eyeliner and shirts that showed too much stomach.
And then there was one night where I was walking home after a party at one of the rich girl’s houses. I walked home through a familiar patch of forest, a short cut with a weathered path beaten into the ground by bikes and families on walks. As I stumbled over forgotten roots and newly fallen branches, I thought about myself. What new item I needed, because my “friends” already had it. What phone or computer or piece of clothing I had to have because everyone else did. I wasn’t selfish, not really, but I wanted- needed- to fit in. Walking through this path, I fell. I felt something worse than any pain I’d ever felt and I screamed. I screamed louder than the sirens and horns of the highway that was close by. I screamed as pain shot up my leg and crippled not only my body, but my mind as well. I reached down and felt something unnatural. The smooth skin of my leg had been interrupted at my ankle by something white that at first, I thought was stabbing into my leg. I nearly passed out from the pain and shock when I realized that nothing had stabbed me. It was part of my shin bone, shoved out of my leg and into the dim moonlight. Panicked and in pain, I tried to get up and scramble home. The pain form this forced my dinner back into my mouth, so I opened it and allowed it to spew onto the forest floor. I collapsed again, and squeezed my eyes shut. From behind my lids the light became brighter, and I opened my eyes, expecting a car’s headlights. There was no one. I looked up, horrified that I would spend my night in this clearing, and my eyes caught the moon.
He glowed brighter for me, and the memory rushed back as he dimmed. I began crawling down the path as he glowed, guiding my way. I scrambled to my dimly lit house, and weakly hit the door. My best friend, my childhood sweetheart, dimmed again as my father answered the door. My father quickly and fluidly scooped me up to bring me to the hospital as the moon smiled down on us, relieved. I knew that I needed to remember nature, needed to reject the cold ways of society, but I needed to remember who my true friends were. The moon shined for me, brighter than the sun, and every night I remember to thank him for saving me before it was too late.
By Emily Niedhammer