I miss flavored lip gloss and pens that write in strawberry-scented ink.
I miss drinking out of the hose on a hot summer day. I miss grass stains on my feet and blackberry stains on my fingers.
I miss having someone else buy my clothes.
I miss not knowing how much I weigh.
I miss wanting to tell people how old I am.
I miss thinking I’d never survive whatever it was I was sure I would never survive.
I miss the smell of Mr. Bubble, Bactine and Deep Woods Off.
I miss these:
I miss putting too much sugar on already-sugared cereal.
I miss lying awake at night and imagining what I’d be like when I was much older and sophisticated, like sixteen.
I miss noticing stuff, like ants and squirrels and funny-shaped rocks and smells and dusk.
I miss wanting the phone to be for me when it rang. I miss it never being for me.
I miss not knowing what’s really going on.
I miss the smell of these:
I miss knowing what I wanted for Christmas, I miss telling everyone within a 50-mile radius what I wanted for Christmas, I miss leaving notes around the house for my parents about what I wanted for Christmas, I miss writing long, detailed letters to Santa about what I wanted for Christmas, and I miss the thrill on Christmas morning when I got it.
I miss the first day of school. I miss the smell of pencil shavings and new notebooks and stiff new jeans.
I miss looking forward to whatever came next, instead of bracing for it.
I suppose buried beneath all this missing is the rich blessing of having been a normal child, a happy, odd little bookworm who took her simple life for granted because she could. Still, though… I miss it.