The Little Girl I Once Was

Author’s Note: I challenged myself to write a poem a day (before I realized there was a movement for this), but tonight, after an accidental glimpse in the mirror, this reflective prose poem is what came out instead.

Click here for the first poem in this challenge. Thank you for reading and wish me luck to keep the pace ❤

. . .

Sometimes, I think I see the little girl I once was. If I happen to see just my eyes in the mirror. If I happen to look into them without thinking about the rest of me. In those eyes, I see a version of myself that I used to be — I see who I once thought I was and who I could be.

So often I remember her with contempt and regret. But sometimes, I think back and remember the golden strands of her hair that bounced softly behind her as she played. Sometimes, I remember her voice and her dreams, and I think just maybe she was a beautiful child once upon a time.

If I close my eyes quickly enough, sometimes I can remember her thoughts, and I remember that she was once as innocent as a child should be. I can even remember her laugh sometimes.

Only if I try real hard. I recall there was once a time that she would laugh without thinking about the sound her voice made as the joy escaped her. I recall she once knew what it was like to not worry about such things.

If I try real hard, sometimes I even think I remember a little of the joy she once experienced. With my eyes closed and my heart open, I can remember the things that once brought her joy —

Sometimes, I can even remember the smell of the basketball she once slept with. I can see the smile that graced her face as she purchased that first ball and how tightly she held onto it, waiting with eager anticipation for the next day when she could test out its unique sound as it bounced.

And sometimes, if the wind is just right, I can smell the scent of fresh rain over the evergreen forest that she grew up surrounded by. If my heart is open wide enough, I can even remember the sound of the waves that crashed upon her favorite rocky shore.

And when the lights are turned down low, I sometimes can recall the warmth of the candles in the cabin she grew up in. If I don’t think too much, I can sometimes remember these things with love and not regret.

Sometimes, I can remember the feeling of joy the way she once did. Sometimes, I can even remember what it is to hope with real faith in the better years ahead.

. . .

Sometimes, I think I see the little girl I once was. If I can manage to see myself in the mirror and only see my eyes.

Only if I can manage to see those eyes without thinking too much.

Sometimes, in those eyes, I can see myself the way I used to be — who I once was and who I thought I could be.

Sometimes, I think I remember what it was to know innocence and love, to know the sun each day without thoughts of fear, and to walk past a mirror without self-loathing so bitter.

Most days, though, I see the me that you see — those eyes with fear and desperation pulling them down and growing wrinkles. Those eyes that stare out from a face with too much flesh and too many red spots.

Most days, that is all I see — wrinkles, flesh, and red spots.

Most days, I look in those eyes and see only regret and contempt.

But sometimes, I can see the little girl I once was.

Sometimes, I can see the me I used to be.

Sometimes. . .

But not most days.

. . .

© Lena Folkert 2022

Previously published on Medium

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Author's Note: Thank you for honoring me with a read. If you've enjoyed what you've read, please click on the 🖤 and explore my other work. All reads, likes, tips, and pledges feed my writer's soul and give me the fuel to keep sitting down at my computer to bleed out words.

Xx - Lena

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