Peter Pan’s Pixie Dust
I believe in the child within. When my friends drop in for a visit, my room always amazes them. “Wow, your room is girlier than a six-year old’s!” one of them would say as she grabbed one of my teddy bears. When I look around at my room, teddy bears and Barbie dolls strewn about decoratively, I see nothing wrong with it. I see the memories each toy has. When I look at my room, sometimes I think about when I was six.
I shared a room with my two older brothers because we lived in a two-room apartment. I had nothing that was mine in that room. The only thing I owned was a dresser full of clothes. But I saved the very last drawer to put my Barbie dolls in even though there was no available space. I never took them out for anyone but myself. “Why should I let that little monster touch my things?” I asked my mom after she told me to go play with one of her friend’s daughters. The girl cried and then I cried later when my mom scolded me for being mean.
But, when I see my friends and their rooms, they have walls covered with posters of actors and musical groups, their beds are relatively larger, and no toys. Where are the memories? I would ask myself. My friends are soft spoken like I am, but I do have rather explicit comments. That’s why they are so shocked. A girl that talks like I do still plays with dolls?
Since my family has moved, my dolls are in boxes restricting my access to them. I remember all of them, their names, clothes, and the unusual fact that each and every one of my dolls has married my only Ken doll, each wedding having their own sort of dramatic story. I only started digging up my treasures from their cardboard prisons a week after having moved. I started placing them on my windowsills, but before I finished, I started playing with them. I believe that anyone has the chance to still be a child, even if they have just had their eightieth birthday. I believe in the eternal childhood, and that Peter Pan exists inside of me.
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