The lights on the tree danced.
I wore Dora pajamas as I
pranced down the stairs. My
heart beating erratically. Santa.
The word fighting to escape my lips.
The house was silent. My quick steps danced
across the tile. Presents were stacked.
Christmas was magical.
And now it is December 25th again.
The idea of sneaking down doesn’t begin
to cross my mind. Santa isn’t real.
I was so ignorant to believe in a myth.
Reindeer couldn’t fly. Did I actually believe
a corpulent man could fit down our chimney?
The magical atmosphere is gone.
And I wish to be a kid again.
When my rubber tires hit the pavement I felt alive. My juvenile legs bouncing off the pedals.
I laughed as I biked down trails
and treacherous hills.
A daredevil. Unbalanced as I rode with no hands.
Scarring my knee from falling.
But now I can drive. The bike living a solitary life.
Covered in webs. Rust inching down its sides.
I want to take it out, but I no longer fit.
And I wish to be a kid again.
The park was a happy place. Playing tag
with my friends.
Diving down slides head first. Swinging
toward the clouds.
So close I could almost touch them.
My sister and I hiding from each other behind
the rock climbing wall. Sucking in breath in case I was heard.
But now the park is just a play place.
My mom asks me if I would like to go
and I reply, “There’s nothing to do there.”
The imagination has vanished.
And I wish to be a kid again.
I didn’t want to grow up.
That was scary. Time elapsed so quickly.
I don’t believe in Santa. I don’t ride my bike.
I don’t go to the playground anymore.
I don’t have a Barbie backpack or order
grilled cheese off the kids menu.
I am no longer the child that I once was. A bubble of innocence. I never wanted to get older.
How boring.
And I was right.