You must know, I did not mean to forget my childhood.

I would like to say that she slipped away from me, like the passage of time on a quiet afternoon. Or that she left me on her own accord, sending me off into the world of Growth with a wave of her little hand.

But you and I both know, that is not the truth.

I had been so beguiled into growing up,

I trampled the gas pedal and left her no room in the passenger seat.

I did not mean to leave her there. Idling in the past, chewing on dust.

I did not mean to leave her there. Small and young, still waiting to be tucked in.

And I certainly did not think she would be waiting for me. All this time.

She called me last night, in a dream.

And when I picked up the receiver on that old rotary phone,

her voice poured through the line and flooded me with the taste of my youth.

You must be wanting to know what we spoke of. If we reminisced on our linear path, so distant yet familiar. You must be wanting to know if she asked me what had become of us. And in turn, you must be wanting to know if I asked if she was proud.

And you must be wanting to know if I groveled for forgiveness in a suit fashioned from my own nostalgia and suffocating guilt.

In truth, she asked me none of this and I spoke of none of that.

In truth, she asked me very mundane questions. Unassuming and innocent.

Like if pink was still my favourite colour,

or if I still looked at the world with fairy dust in my eyes.

And when she told me the sun was rising and she had to go,

I wanted to break through the telephone line and hold her hand in mine.

Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go.

So short, the time I got to spend with her. And too long ago to remember who we were.

I felt a desperate and sudden ache to be coddled by her.

How did she know so much? Why do I know so little?

And why did no one warn me that I would forget?

Why did you call me?

I asked her this before we parted,

and I will tell you what she said to me.

I call every night. You finally answered.

I’m sorry. I didn’t know, I told her. The phone only just rang.

That’s okay. The phone won’t ring until you want it to.

I knew nothing of what to say to that.

I knew nothing of what to say at all.

And the phone, I said. It rang for me tonight. Why?

She paused to think, the way I do.

Because you’re remembering now, what it means to play.