Childhood is the Kingdom where Nobody dies

(I'm spending a rainy afternoon clearing out the blogs I had saved in my "drafts" folder, and I came across this one. I wrote it back in June. No idea why I never hit publish. It's interesting to re-read the things I've written. In a way it gives me a different perspective on, well, myself. I think at the time I was feeling a little too vulnerable to send it out. One of the bloggers I frequent has a quote posted on her blog by Anais Nin: We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection." That's somewhat fitting in my case. So I decided to send it out.)


June 9th, 7PM
I had a dream last night that we were at our old house in Alabama. I can't tell you what the dream was about, who was in it, or if it was even a good or bad dream. I just remember seeing the house. I've been back to Alabama twice since we moved away. Both times I drove by our old house. Both times I stopped in front and thought about asking whoever lived there if I could come in. But I was too afraid to see the changes. I think sometimes it's easier to remember the way things were, instead of what they end up being.

But now, I kind of wish I could see the house in a way. I want to close my eyes and see the ghosts. I want to sit in front of the fireplace and run my fingers over the singed spots from the sparks. I want to see us horsing around on the floor. I used to lay on my back and stick my feet up. Emily would lay on my feet and I'd "fly" her through the air. I want to remember the night of the "Blizzard of 1993" when the power went out and we all had to sleep in the living room. Emily and I fought over who got to use the Turkish blanket, and then the dog ended up sleeping on it anyway. I want to know if the rocks we painted are still in the front yard. I want to sit in the middle of the floor and picture the sea of Barbie dolls and accessories that engulfed the living room. I want to run my hand across the mantle where we hung our Christmas stockings. I want to open the closet door and laugh at the mismatched sqaure from when I set the carpet on fire. I want to remember Emily that way all the time. I wish Emily had stayed that way. I wish I had stayed that way. I want to tell the two ghost girls to stay in those moments forever.

I want to... I want to....

I want to go back to my childhood.

I've never had that desire before. I've never wished I could be a certain age again. But I've never had to, not until I was faced with having to get older without Emily. I wish I could go back to before life became complicated. Before Emily became angry. Before we started hating each other and she was still the loveable ditz that drove me crazy, but she was too darn cute to stay angry with.

One of the books I'm reading has an excerpt from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay that struck me when I read it. :

"Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies."

I miss my kingdom.

I haven't felt this melancholy in awhile. And when I started writing this blog- my intent was a funny story. I'm not sure what made it morph into melancholy. I guess that's just part of living with two dominant sides. The side that wants to move on, to smooth the ragged edges of the hole in my heart, and the side that wants to stay in bed and weep for my sister, that's afraid of letting the hole close lest it forgets.

Light and Shadows

Present and Past

What is and What should be

I guess in all honesty- even if I could go back to my childhood, I don't think I would. Kingdoms don't last forever.

But I still miss it.

As I was writing this, I did a search on Google to make sure I got the quote from the poem right. And found the poem in it's entirety.
Whoa.

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certian age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course
Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripèd bag, or a jack-knife,
And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.

And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,
And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
With fleas that one never knew were there,
Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
Trekking off into the living world.
You fetch a shoe-box, but it's much too small, because she won't curl up now:
So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.

But you do not wake up a month from then, two months,
A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God! Oh, God!

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters, - mothers and fathers don't die
And if you have said, "For heaven's sake, must you always be kissing a person?"
Or, "I do wish to gracious you'd stop tapping on the window with your thimble!"
Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you're busy having_fun,
Is plenty of time to say, "I'm sorry, mother."
To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak;
Who do not drink their tea, though they always said
Tea was such a comfort.

Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries; they are not tempted.
Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly
That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
They are not taken in.
Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,
Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake them and yell at them;
They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide back into their chairs.
Your tea is cold now.
You drink it standing up,
And leave the house.