Sweet Child of Mine

My darling child, how would you like to be?

The paper is yet a seed and not even a tree that has not been born. It’s starstuff swirling about, twisting, turning, churning, clashing and recycling waiting on you.

It’s all yours, this one life you’ve yet to live.

The molecular, cellular neurons of infinite possibility are bubbling and bursting with frenetic energy. Don’t you fret about the Science; I’ve got that worked out.

Sweet child of light and love and mystery map it out.

Go ahead, the perfect spontaneous combustion of blood, thinking mind and oxygen.

Anything? Really? I can be any old which way I want? Wow. That’s a whole lot of responsibility. Okay, let me think. Just for a short little teeny smidgen while.

Let me stay in my transparent, weightless, formless white bouncing bubble. The orbs are so beautiful up here, heaven consists of white, transparent bubbles in varying sizes, forever moving and colliding in the stratosphere.

No, no my darling don’t overthink; don’t try too hard.

Okay, I think I understand. Do I get a full size, funky, groovy physical body and a freewheeling willful thoughtful, attentive mind?

Yes, exactly like that. You’re getting it now; it’s not yours forever so be sure to make the stark-naked birthday suit snug with plenty of room to grow.

Ooh goody. I’d like to be lovely, wanted and kind. I’d like to feel happy, funny and proud. 

Make me loyal and true, surrounded by humans who adore my company. Ooh ooh ooh yes, I’d like that very much to be likable.That matters, right? 

I’d want to be brave, adventurous, scale majestic mountains and feel the wind coursing cold through my veins while tickling the leaves on the trees. 

You know, really know the climate, experience the burn and sweat and chills. I want to feel it all; Freestyle, lightning, thunder, carnival, cotton candy sticky, sappy drippy love, music, and melody.

I want to float, weightless. Make me loud and quiet, clear and crazy buoyant alive. I’d like to swim naked twisting and smiling, dance without rhyme and sing off-key. And giggle you know and laugh, like a lot. I’d want to worship my time. I’d like to be remembered by the etchings in towering ancient bamboo stalks. I’d like to be remembered by how much I loved being, alive.

Is that all of it, you think?

No, no, no. Almost. I want to know endless wine-dark seas, mystery and spend time in an open, transparent glass house.

I want to hear riptide waves of emotion crashing off the sea. 

I suppose I want it all.

Make me pretty, pretty please. 

Pretty inside with honesty exploding through my pores.

 Recollect, I’d like to remember.

I want to recall how it felt to be oxygen and blood with a body that stood tall, as the trees I see when I close my imaginary eyes. Yes, my observant imaginary hazel gold speckled eyes. I’d like them to be open, inquisitive and objective. I don’t want to miss seeing the kaleidoscope of unbounded, endless, limitless pigment.

Is that everything? Are you sure?

Oh no. Hold on, wait one tiny second let me dream a little bit further, bigger, wider. More sky, more stars, more fire, more water, more spontaneous, and more of everything ignition.

Make me a colorful palette of emotions.

Make me a colorful palette of emotions.

I can give you all of the glorious living and more, overzealous child. Yes, I most certainly can but it comes with a lofty price.

I DON’T CARE. I won’t remember being alive, being human anyway.

Will I?

Déjà vu memories, moments stick from before and before and before.

Paint splatters, Pictionary cinemas, a mother’s sweet smell and mighty love, a brother’s creativity curiosity, and a father’s megawatt bounce back luminosity.

Beautiful, friendly faces whirl and Crayola crayon letters fill the bubble.

Words like loyalty, belly laughs and heartbreak hugs ring familiar. Yes, I remember fleeting, faded moments, increments.

How it must have felt being prickly skin alive.

 Oh, the bliss. Please, can you make me just like this?

I can, and I will because you won’t remember the excruciating pain involved, the messy and the ugly. You won’t remember how very hard life was. That’s the syrupy gift of living, you leave behind the tears you cry, and the agony you most certainly will feel.

You must understand, sweet over-exuberant child of mine, no earthling lives forever. No sentient being lives without experiencing grief; there are only varying levels. Yours will be equal in measure to the gorgeous grandiose requests. You will be mighty, even when you are way out of your comfort zone.

The bubble, remember the bliss and freedom of the forever safety bubble. Fireflies and light flutters on the earth. Look to the magic and mystic signs, they will guide and comfort you.

Are you sure; are you ready? The choice is entirely yours, my darling. You don’t … You, you don’t have to. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.

No, no, no! I’m going … ready or not. It’ll be over before I can take in and fully grasp one human breath. Maybe you could add a pause button, please, so I might be more than some other being’s fading memory? Perhaps I can stay down there, just a little while longer? Not forever, no, I know. I understand. Just long enough, enough time so I can get it.

I need to get what this living thing is about.

Please, please, pretty please?

I really, really, really want to go. I think I’ve got it all mapped out.

Oh, sweet child, sweet child of mine.

You’re ready, now.

Just go live it.

Okay. I’m ready. Now.

Just go and live it.

Photo: ©Martin Vorel All Rights Reserved








Jacqueline Cioffa

A retired, international model, and celebrity makeup artist. Co-Author of Model Citi Zen, the guide. Founder of
http://modelcitizenmakeup.blogspot.com/. Author of numerous prose pieces in various literary magazines. Most recently published in Little Episodes Brainstorms the anthology, among esteemed artists Sadie Frost, Melvin Burgess and Todd Swift.

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