this year brought the birth of a new sensation, that of constant worry.

i read an article in high school that stated many women, statistically, cope with worry at a more heightened level than men. they lose sleep, have panic attacks more frequently than their male counterparts. at the time, i was experiencing the most anxiety i'd ever known and remember thinking, surely, this is true. but i suppose that, as we grow older, we understand better. i will understand with more wisdom in twenty years, will mark my years by the quantity of present stress.

when i was younger, i'd run to my mother. even in college, i would think about how i'd like to hug my mother when my heart felt broken, or my mind felt muddled. but as i've grown older, my mother is less of a comfort to me. i've watched some of my friends lose their own mothers in recent years, witnessed the overwhelming grief. we are so very temporary, aren't we?

*

i do not remember the day that i stopped believing i could fly--only that, as a young girl, i believed with the utmost sincerity that one leap from the stairs would send me hovering through the living room. it wasn't until my later childhood, around ten or eleven, that i recalled this trick of nature and almost tried again. unfortunately, fear kept my feet sealed to the stairs, and i dismissed these memories of flying to dreams, not realities.

several months ago, i spoke with andrea, who believed she, too, could fly. i decided then that maybe what others consider heretical are actually god's own magic tricks. a child's sweet innocence, dismissed as witchcraft, could be god's source of laughter and joy.

i have, of course, no sound theological evidence of this idea.

*

my old best friend was married one week ago. we loved books then, would have sleepovers that consisted entirely of reading until we fell asleep. when i wet my pants from laughing too hard at fourteen, she kept the secret and hid my pants in her parents' washing machine. when we tried to make a massive cookie at ten, we learned that, while the outside may burn, the inside would remain doughy and uncooked.

she was beautiful, a simple white dress and delicate veil. she glowed.

*

rarely do i feel like an adult, but i convince myself that the adults around me are the same--children on the inside, constantly amazed by the oldness of their hands, the way they cook meals and pay bills. i use christmas lights and soft blankets as evidence, perhaps concealed by a self-proclaimed appreciation of finer things.

on a beautiful day, we'd like to soothe the cramp of stress in our stomachs and climb a tree, listen to lullabies, sleep soundly. we are babies, quite simply.