I am often told by my parents, stories of the sweetest, most adorable little girl. They tell me how her blazing ginger hair would stick up wildly, and how her chubby cheeks and big smile lit up every room so brightly it was almost blinding. They tell me about how kind and caring she was. How she was always pleased and smiling. How she never complained, and only cried when she was away from mom and dad. They tell me everyone loved her, constantly taking pictures, and laughing as she posed sassily like she was a real-life model. She was the star no matter where she went. I’ve found, it’s so strange that little girl is just as much as Riley Jordan as I am, and although I have memories, this child has become a stranger to me. I find myself often wondering where she went, or if she went anywhere at all? If she’s still me. If I am still her. Then where do I go to find her?  

Along with these stories comes words that cut so deep into my whole being that at times I feel as though I am going to melt down into the ground and lie there forever. Just a liquified version of a human. Words like “what has happened to you” and “I miss the little girl who cared.” So now I figure maybe the questioning of where this optimistic child has gone is not truly what I care about. I think I do care because I have been told that she was a better version of me than I am now and ever have been. I am mourning the loss of someone who is still apart of me, and I’m not sure why.