I hear the echo of her soft, high-pitched voice as if she’s right around the corner. I picture her peace sign shirt, neon leggings, and hair bow. I turn to look, but there’s no one there; all I can hear is her voice.
I’m a little girl again, giggling playing telephone in my matching pajama set with my friends, not a care in the world. She thought she would never grow up. Nostalgia fills my heart. Her quiet voice whispers hello and she asks me how we grew up so fast. She says she was with me when I won the spelling bee in fifth grade, when I ran my first race in seventh grade, when I said goodbye to my best friend before she moved 800 miles away in ninth grade, when I waltzed across the stage to graduate high school. When I committed to Sacred Heart to run and when I cried for months when I finally got there because I craved my home. I spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, wishing for my mom, just like I did at sleepovers when I was little. My younger self knew I would get through it.
Her voice echoes in my heart during all the rough patches when I feel like I am drowning because the opinions of others are strangling me, and I can’t quite seem to catch my breath. She’s there, giggling nearby, keeping my head above water, making me laugh when laughter seems impossible. She loved to read as much as I do now, getting lost in these fantastical worlds until all hours of the night. She loved the bright colors I am still drawn to, and she resisted the “popular” way of things. She always knew exactly who she was. She loved time with Mom, just like I do, snuggled up, absorbing movie after movie under a soft blanket.
The years passed, and I found myself wishing I could stop time. I crave more childhood memories, more years living at home, more childlike magic. But even though she’s all grown up now, my younger self still exists in the echoes of my heart.
