Playground Fairies

There's something romantic

when your feet don't reach the ground

like you're eight years old, short

bare feet swinging in summer air.

Maybe it's because after

when you flip from the monkey bars

and land

and scrape your hands in the mulch

you'll know you are human

and you will never fly.

I can't remember if I really believed in fairies as a child, or if I just said that I did because I wished they were real.  Even now, as a nearly-adult, I keep an open mind. Why should I deny magic just because it's childish? I'm childish enough for magic. 

I can't see magic, but it's like I can feel it sometimes, sitting at the top of a jungle gym or jumping out of a swing. I still run around in the woods and climb the big rocks. I squish myself onto the tire swing that I outgrew seven years ago and make my younger cousins push me because I pushed them. I sit at my desk surrounded by my dolls and stuffed animals because they make me happy. I don't want to give that up.

I've been trying to play with my little brother more often recently. He's six, and I've noticed that he's starting to make up games like Allie and I used to. It makes me a little sad to tell him that I'm too big to fit in his fort and too heavy to play popcorn on the trampoline without possibly hurting him. 

I'm glad that I've grown as a person, but sometimes I miss when all I wanted in life was Littlest Pet Shops and cool playgrounds. Do you?