The Space We Share.

To those who had to grow up too fast,

I am still a child. I will live your childhood for you. I should be grown up just like you are, but that little kid inside of me won’t let me. So I walk with her along the path to my childhood home. We play hopscotch and toss stones. I hold the hand of the kid you never got to be, and you play with us—both versions of me. The version that lives on in a house I no longer dwell in, and the current version of me who just can’t keep going.

We play in the creek below my childhood home. We climb on the ghosts of the hay bales that once sat in the building out back. We ride bikes down the gravel lane and play in the old chicken litter. I’m so sorry you never experienced childhood the way I did. I’m so fucking sorry that life can be so bitter.

You’re taking the trips I dream of, walking on the grounds of enchanting worlds. I’m still playing in the yard of my childhood.

You are living as the adult I’m supposed to be now. I don’t want to grow up, but I must somehow.

I envy the places you’re going, the people you meet, and the life you are living. I wish I could give you the childhood I had—it’s something no one should ever be missing.

I’m sorry you had to grow up so fast. I’m sorry to myself for struggling to.

I wish I could turn back time. What I wouldn’t do.