the little ones

When she was little, she used to ask her parents, “do you ever find it hard to believe that you’re a real person? I just never feel real.”

I had never met someone who was so afraid of others and how they could make her feel. She would place her hands over her ears when the world became a too vibrant. Her feelings seemed like tangible strings pouring out of her fingertips — like she was about to burst.

She was often overheard ‘playing school’ by herself. Talking and asking questions to absolutely nobody and yet the quietness was enough of a satisfactory answer. Truly, I think she was just obsessed with whiteboards.

She used to eat butter straight from the tub and never dreamed of checking a label. She loved to sit in the porch and watch the rain hit the glass. When she realised that moths were attracted to light, she would shine her lamp at her closed window and watch them all come towards it. She felt she was born only to be an observer.

She could always tell who was coming up the stairs by the creak their footsteps made, and she grew so comforted knowing which spot on her floor to avoid splinters on with its chipping wood. Her home had grown and changed around her. She began to age with it.

She thought her emotions were too much for other people and so let a storm rage inside her. She wondered if there would ever be a time in which she would feel normal. She always dreamt of someone taking care of her — someone to share in her thoughts and protect her. She wanted someone to brush her hair and calm her mind. She couldn’t understand why wanting care was so shameful, and why she came to reject it consistently.

She was so little. She thought the world wasn’t built for her to understand alone. I admire how far she has come until now. I know she wishes she could just sit on her stairs reading her favourite book, and stretch her small legs so they filled the entire step.

She is so special to me. I will brush her hair if she needs it.