I Know Things

I know things.

Like how no matter where I go, there will always be a part of me climbing, hands splintering as they peel back chipped paint and carry me to the top of the old barn with no animals. There used to be animals. I would approach them, walking and smiling and breathing in the scent of fur and dirt and plants together. They wouldn’t run because they knew my smile. These were days sitting on llamas, pretending like I could talk to them and know what they were feeling. Sometimes they were annoyed, and you could always tell by the way their ears went back, but mostly they were forward-ear animals; loving me as I loved them. There were goats; pretty useless as they were but good companions and fun to be around. One male goat decided he was the alpha but I was always challenging him for that role. I usually won. When they were gone, I sat on top of the barn with no animals, watching the grass move in time with the wind and thinking of Alice in Wonderland. I know flowers can talk, I’m not stupid- but what about grass? It was very hard for me to imagine a world where blades of grass could not talk. They had to, in order to discuss how demanding the wind could be but how fun it was to dance. I also knew the trees could talk, because for all my climbing, I knew their branches would hold me up as long as I needed, and a few times I swear I heard their laughter. They were laughing at the girl with splintered hands and alpha status and I heard them say, “Look at this girl. I hope she climbs forever.” I never stopped climbing, and I never will. That I know.

I know for all my moments of bliss when I was young, there were 4 moments of pain. One, when I realized I could never be as smart as my siblings and no matter how I tried, the books would tear at me with teeth that slowly cut as they whispered, “you need us.” Two, when I noticed that every boy I loved only loved me when it benefitted them. They did not know the girl who climbed; only the girl who wanted so desperately to be loved that she was whoever they wanted her to be. They never made her whole, but still she kept trying. Three, when I saw my parents cry, faces red and eyes searching my face for some explanation of why I had caused their tears. I had no answer. I had no answers for anything. Finally, four, when I looked at myself and saw the girl who could not finish books, who had known too many boys, who made her parents cry and who had no answers. For the heights I could climb, I could sink even lower. That I know.

The last thing I know is that books became my allies; comforting me and encouraging me with sweet words of far away lands, of heroes and enemies and friendship and bravery. I was myself again, and the boys whose fingerprints faded were a distant memory I chose not to remember. My parents became my friends, and I wiped their tears instead of causing them.

And still I climbed.