Childhood memories

I visited my parents' place over Mother's Day weekend earlier this spring. I normally stay in a room on the second floor, but since my dad moved some of his office stuff into that room, I stayed in another. And, thus, I saw something that I hadn't seen in a very long time.

In the twilight of time between then and tomorrow, the small stool caught the soft hue of nearby light. The legs, four pillars of foundation, still stood willing and ready for the weight of a young child's imagination. I knelt down, knowing that while it may not hold my physical weight, it would still support the dreams and aspirations of a lost adolescent. I cried.

My childhood name was written across the top of that stool.

I don't know if it was the emotion of seeing something I cherished from my half bottled-up youth, or if it was a nod to the time spent alone as a kid while sitting on that stool pondering the reasons why my body didn't match who I thought I was. While I remember many of the toys and items I had as a child, I have realized I cherished the ones where gender didn't matter.

My sister had the Barbies and stuffed animals, along with makeup and a small toy house. I had the Matchbox cars, the Shogun Warriors, and a number of other boy items. We both had sporting equipment, along with watercolor posters made by our mom that had our names and other things that started with the same letter. Mine was K, her's was L.

We both had kites that we flew when the wind was swift enough to keep our dreams afloat. In the winter, we had sleds that let us slide along on journeys we'd never taken. And when we could, we both rode our bikes wherever our little legs could take us.

My sister and I had Christmas stockings with our names labeled across the top. We both received similar ornaments from our grandmother, mine often resembling a boy's toy, but not always.

My sister and I shared a collection of 45's that we played on our little record player. We both loved the song "YMCA".

And my sister and I both had stools with our names on them. I remember her's breaking at some point, which we fixed, but if I'm not mistaken, mine weathered the years quite well. Sure, it still shows its age, but it has remained sturdy throughout the years.

I've broken down crying while writing this entry tonight...an amazing four months later...in shear awe of the power of emotion I felt that night. And I'm not sure if the tears are good or bad, whether I'm crying from the memories of a happy, yet unfulfilled childhood, or if it's the sight of something dear to my heart that interlaced that childhood with the power to keep that little girl inside me alive.

Perhaps this weekend I shall fly a kite and see.