Ryley Clarke
In the room of toys and purity, we resided.
Playing, dreaming of the great possibilities of the sunlit unknown
Soaking in the freedom of caring so little about what we now cannot rid our minds of
The high pitches of laughter providing the warmth between the walls
Imaginings of impossible beings
Living dolls
Mirrors of anything but the overwhelming insecurities that taunt us now
Yet eventually.
One by one.
The children must wave goodbye
Until the last born is left
Behind closed shutters
To baste in the lonely world of imaginings
Until at last she will give in
And wave goodbye to the empty room
Her name in chalk still written upon the coloured walls
Scratching in the name of her old peers beside her own
Claiming her home as only so with them in it
Missing them earnestly, perpetually
Her favorite doll holding her hand as she dismisses,
Hesitantly
tearfully
A bowed head
A grieving glance
I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t ready to grow up.