When the time is now, “Once Upon a Time” feels sort of trite. So we remove ourselves from fairytales. And, when a person dies, “The End” is no longer a sufficient summary for the years they lived or the lives they changed. So we remove ourselves from the vernacular of fairytales. But with the beginning and the end, comes the middle: Unable to have one without the other, there can be no Prince Charming, no dressmaker-mice, no bibbidi, no bobbidi…but we get a lot of boo.
By the age of seven, we have heard enough princess stories to expect the unattainable and seen enough of the warning signs to know that the alternative to a happy ending isn’t something we want. Life is full of boo, so we keep the crowns on a little longer. Wave the magic wands. Spin around in our dresses. Pretend we aren’t spooked.
Lately, my first line of defense has been an acknowledgement. I have run through the forests with the talking trees. I have let them cut off my heel to fit into a bloody shoe. Eaten the poisoned apple. Been asleep for too long. But now I am awake and I will tell you how spooked I am. Once you’ve seen bad, it’s so much harder to believe that good still lives here.
I need a dream catcher, to fall asleep. I need a clock to hold hands with.
Something to make time pass peacefully. But I am afraid of midnight. Afraid, mostly, that every day will stay the same.
Looking back on the last few months, I’ve racked up a lot of stories. Some of which I am hoping time helps to forget. Most of which I just wish has happened in a different order. Few, I’ll never really get over. Lots of “The Ends.”
I can only hope that every end leads to a stronger beginning.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.