Nostalgia

A tiny, booming sound and padding footsteps on the wood.

An unintelligible little squeal like a morning bird

though I (and only I) recognize the sound and the meaning like it is my own.

The echo of joy grows nearer, an innocent giggle followed by one of the shiny new phrases that your endearingly curious brain absorbs from the giants around you.

I catch a glimpse of the unruly, golden feather fluff reaching for the sky like it wants to detach from your head. Your clumsy call rings down these narrow halls.

To anyone else, babbling gibberish,

but to me, your little mouth calling my nickname is enough to bring a genuine, pocketed smile to

my face.

You get better at your T’s everyday and the sound of your E’s seems to be more enunciated each weekend I get to come home and hear.

Part of me doesn’t want my name to perfectly echo from your figure. Your misguided attempts to call for me make me feel like your world.

Your baby-soft hand reaches for me and you guide me to the fort we had constructed. Your little face scrunches up in the cover of the pink teepee as I make a fool of myself to hear your raw, childlike chuckle.

A hue of warmth surrounds us and I feel as if I'm in a memory, a dream.

Warm pastels and soothing fuzzy clouds.

A haze of color transports me back to a beige carpet and a cardboard spaceship, old tapes playing on our tube TV. I’m five years old, eating Kraft mac and cheese and gulping down a Mickey Mouse cup of Minute Maid fruit punch. Powerpuff Girls in the morning and rented DVDs at night. Itchy princess gowns and poking tiaras on delicate, new skin.

A freezing sting on your cheeks and a cold burning in your lungs that makes you rip off the coat your dad said to keep on.

Hula-hoops and jump ropes, chalk and training wheels.

Corduroy couches and boring glass coffee tables. Car rides with Goldfish in a cup holder and sing-alongs to Penny Lane on the radio.

Early mornings weren’t for school, and books were for bedtime, not reading assignments. Closets only held monsters and the basement was where your cousins went for family parties.

A split second,

a certain light,

a specific smell,

the jittering laughter from a child and you are back to a place.

Because that wood used to be tile and those footsteps used to be mine

but now the bearer is different.

Your little hands hold mine and I feel how much I want to give you all you want.

I want to give you everything I didn’t have and everything I did.

I want to see every step. I want to be there when you get older and change.

I want you to feel like the favorite, have the excuse of being cute.

I want you to know the unconditional love of being a child. I look through my barely just begun life,

already longing for a time before. We are all just children, wishing for our mom to hold our hand. A close look into somebody’s eyes  and sometimes you can see the kid peeking out the corner or running through the den.

A smile,

a laugh,

a cry,

it's the hope that someone will see that little piece of who you were and hold your hand.

I can’t wait to hold your hand.