What I wish I could say to that child who begged me to be her mother when I was in college:
Oh sweet child, your beautiful face full of hope and dreams, of youth so raw even though you shook when you heard your daddy was waiting for you outside. You grabbed my hand so tight, you pulled on my right arm and lifted your pink corduroy legs up off the linoleum floor of that cold Lutheran church and you begged me to take you home. I tried to explain that I live in a dorm room with the tiniest refrigerator you have ever seen, and I didn't have a bed for you to sleep in. While I said these things, I tucked you into my loft, gave you your own pillow, provided you with a new teddy bear for your new safe soft life, and kissed your forehead good night. I wished you sweet dreams. I sang you a low slow lullabye and tried to warm your shivering bones with my heart.
You looked me in the eyes with terror combined with fantasy. You had your own visions of what a life must be like with a young white girl who came to play hop scotch on Saturday mornings, and teach you how to braid ribbons or mold clay, or fold cranes. You wanted me to sprinkle the glitter on your glue perfectly swirled onto the the construction paper, and then you wanted me to take it home, to remember you, and fall in love with you, so I would take you home, take you to the yellow brick road in your sweet pretty head fragrant of coconut oil and strawberry jello, take you away from whatever brought that stark fear into your clenched jaw. And I would have, darling, I would have had I been older.
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