...my six year old self jumps into my body - no, the place deeper than my body -- and she needs things that can no longer be offered. A question. A light hand on the small of her back. A tousling of the hair. Someone saying, "How are you? Come sit by me a while."
I think this child is extraordinarily beautiful. Her eyes are still my eyes. Her calm is my calm. I am entranced by her. I want to scoop her up and snuggle with her. I want to tuck her into bed. Read with her. Sing with her. Ask her what she did today. I want to show her a constellation. A ring of stars called Jean.
I want to tell her that it all turns out better than she imagined. I want to tell her it is all harder than she could guess. I want to tell her that there are people she will love who won't quite know how to love her back. I want to tell her that she is extraordinarily beautiful on that day, and the next day, and the one after that, until she truly believes it and can leave herself behind.
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