I remember the first woman I ever laid eyes on, and no I am not speaking about my mother. Even though Mother is the one woman who is not part of this story, she is a big part of my life, just not this part.
I was too young to understand the complexity of the female being. This didn’t happen this way because of my ignorance, but because I couldn’t understand it at my age. I was maybe four years old, still in kindergarten. I remember that this little girl was interested in me, she wanted to be friends but all I ever did was ignore her. I ran away from her every time during recess.
God knows what could’ve come from that. Maybe she was lonely, I don’t remember enough, but I do recall just enough to picture her face, with those sad eyes staring at me through the chains that held the swings in the playground. That brown hair falling to her shoulders, her hands gripping the chains, staring, with a nervous wondrous smile quickly fading away.
Did she know why I was ignoring her? Did she know why I kept running away from her? What lied beneath my friendly appearance?
Confusion. Fear. Disappointment.
I do not remember her name. I do not remember her parents. I do not remember anything but her quirky laugh as she chased me around and I escaped her grasp.
She will forever be "The Girl on the Swing" to me, and maybe one day, in the nearby future, we will bump into each other, and recognize ourselves.
But most likely not, for as I said before, this is not a fairy-tale.
I was too young to understand the complexity of the female being. This didn’t happen this way because of my ignorance, but because I couldn’t understand it at my age. I was maybe four years old, still in kindergarten. I remember that this little girl was interested in me, she wanted to be friends but all I ever did was ignore her. I ran away from her every time during recess.
God knows what could’ve come from that. Maybe she was lonely, I don’t remember enough, but I do recall just enough to picture her face, with those sad eyes staring at me through the chains that held the swings in the playground. That brown hair falling to her shoulders, her hands gripping the chains, staring, with a nervous wondrous smile quickly fading away.
Did she know why I was ignoring her? Did she know why I kept running away from her? What lied beneath my friendly appearance?
Confusion. Fear. Disappointment.
I do not remember her name. I do not remember her parents. I do not remember anything but her quirky laugh as she chased me around and I escaped her grasp.
She will forever be "The Girl on the Swing" to me, and maybe one day, in the nearby future, we will bump into each other, and recognize ourselves.
But most likely not, for as I said before, this is not a fairy-tale.
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