I was 6, and I ran away. God alone now knows why, I guess time and experience has erased the why. Although, I was probably being saucy, or “lippy” as you liked to say.
If you’ll remember Mom, I got as far as the end of the driveway.
For some reason that memory has been with me the last week. I can see that little girl I was, long dark hair down my back, big blue eyes all full of tears, fists clenched, standing there, looking west, than east, down that lonely gravel road, wondering where will I go?
Umph. So I went back.
What is that little dark-haired, blue-eyed girl trying to tell me? For these many years, over those four decades, I have, and maybe I will again, run away. Who knows? I’ve wanted to run away more as an adult, then ever as a child. I only wanted to be off chasing rainbows, or trying to shove cats into places they don’t want to be (some things never change).
I read somewhere years ago that when you are six, you are your perfect self. You are self-aware, but still somewhat innocent to the wilds of the world. I’ve often thought of it as an in-between time, that crack of time before you explore this perfect you. In time that I will become ragged and worn, perhaps. In time one may be unrecognizable, but I is always there.
Sometimes buried under heaps of garbage, or wandering, lonely, through the woods, or by a riverside, yet always even the lost can be found.