They Will Tell You the World Is Yours

They Will Tell You the World Is Yours

Growing Up

Light

They will tell you that you are finally born. This is light. This is air. This is your mother. You know her, but you don’t know this side of her. You think, If you could just get closer. If you could press up against all of her. If you could wrap yourself up inside her again, then you would be back to really knowing her. Like it was just two minutes ago. Five minutes ago, now. Seven minutes. Ten. That knowing was bigger and deeper. The light there was different. Not so bright, but it was lit—you were lit, from inside. No one will tell you that your whole life you will meet people who are looking for that light. How these people will climb mountains, jump out of planes, suck down tequila, fall in love, destroy love, drive across countries, fly across continents, pop pills, tell stories, watch stories, read stories, write stories, fold pages of stories into bottles and send the bottles downstream because they are searching for it. They figure you have plenty of time in front of you and you’ll figure it out. Whether you join the people or not will be up to you.

Gold Rush

They will tell you this is a breast, and whoa, mama, that’s nice. A breast is your new favorite thing. It’s so nice and comforting that you can hardly stay awake—even when you try your hardest, you end up a drooly, happy mess. And when the nurses come and pull you away, all you can think is, But there’s liquid gold coming out. And all you can do is cry. So they wrap you tighter in your blanket. They make sure your hat is positioned correctly on your head. Later, much later, there will come a day when you are standing on a street in the middle of a very cold city and you will remember this feeling of being pulled away from a breast you love. The breast is an evening that has come to an end. The breast is a job that your whole life was stacked on, like a tower of dominoes. The breast is the warm, comforting laugh of someone you once thought you would spend the rest of your life with. You will wrap the jacket tighter around your body, and you will straighten the hat on your head. You will push on to the next moment, wondering if that’s the last taste you’ll ever get of liquid gold.

Never Enough

They will show you over and over again how to crawl. You will watch them move on hands and knees across your bedroom and the living room. You will try to move your arms and your legs just like they do, but you will find it’s much harder than it looks—until one day it just happens. After you push your chest off the floor, one arm moves forward, then the other. One leg scooches forward, then the other. And oh, they will cheer when they see you going. But then, instead of picking you up or giving you one of those chocolate cookies you like so much—the ones with cream filling—they will place a toy just out of your reach. They will ask, “Now, can you get here?” You will look around, amazed. Didn’t they see that you just did the thing they’ve been wanting you to do for so long? On their faces you will see the first thing has been forgotten; they want you to do this new thing now. And so one arm, one leg, then the other arm and the other leg, you will scooch forward until you reach the toy. And oh, they will cheer again. But then, again, they will put another object just outside your reach . . .

If Only

They will tell you not to eat the berries off the trees. And so instead, you will feed them to your dog. The two of you will run circles around each other in the backyard. Here is a circle around the swing set. Here is a circle around your father’s grill. Here is a circle around the small circle of fresh dog throw-up. The circles make you feel light-headed and free. Sunshine and blue skies. No one watching over you or telling you to be careful. If only you could spend your whole life running in circles, then wouldn’t you feel free?

After Midnight

They will tell you that knives are too sharp to touch. Sofas aren’t for standing. Beds aren’t for jumping. Food goes in your mouth, not on your face, or on the floor, or on the wall. We do not bite people. We do not yell in people’s faces. We do not throw cups at people, even when we are really, really mad. It will be your decision to go along with these rules—or not. Some children do. Some children don’t. Some children stand on the playground, wagging their finger back and forth, telling everybody else what they can and can’t do, foreshadowing the adults they will grow up to be. Some children lie in bed long after dark, when everyone else in the house is sleeping, and imagine what it would be like to venture into the kitchen, take the peanut butter from the pantry, pull a knife out of the drawer, and make their own sandwich. Some children don’t. But the ones who will walk tightropes when they grow up do.