Spinning. A mysterious child. Floating like wind over water. Feet held inward and premature. Arms made of cloud that sign the air with indecipherable hieroglyphs. A special language made only for that one girl and her world.
She moves with unsure grace. But never fails. A single rotation. A twirl. Mesmerized by something in the distance.
What imaginary fascination captivates that trance?
Obviously something lost in me as an adult. I thought, looking at the small frame of my former self, nearly three.
My grandmother took the photo back into her hands. “Yes you used to love to twirl out in the sun when you were little.”
“How weird.” I said, self consciously.
“No.” Grandma corrected seriously, her soft wrinkles set kindly on her eyes. “It was cute. You always had a very… ethereal quality.”
I suppose I had always been strange, even back then, lost in my imaginery world. As old as I am, I still daydream quite a bit, only now I’m aware of my absence of normalcy.
I looked out to the small yard through the window. It was a glorious day. There was a quaint little table that sat under a wooden alcove attached to the house, decorated with various potted plants and flowers. The chlorophyll pigments of leaves were impregnated with the sun's glow. The breeze flowed through the trees and the bushes of tomato plants along the fence. Windchimes jingled unruly tunes out into the air, bringing sound and movement to the inanimate. I felt a simplistic peace about nature I didn’t quite know how to express.
I took a glance back at the picture, now set in place on it’s shelf.