Just a thin piece of tissue separates our adult selves from our childhood selves. A piece of tissue that lingers, woven and threaded, bordering on a realization nearly achieved by adolescence and coming into full fruition at young adulthood. At that time the tissue is strong, decorous and resilient to attack of consciousness both social and emotional. Firm and thickly guarded more than at any time in the histories of our lives; however, with each year the tissue is pulled–tautly and tightly–as if by the resolute strength of knowing hands or determined will. With each decade it stretches and is pulled until the weave gives, the stitches fray and begin to unravel. In a like movement of time, at a place in and of the tissue, the threads therein hold no longer. The material falters into a breach and with the incredible ease of familiarity the two selves, the child and adult meet and meld one more time.
It is easy slipping on and into my child-self. A comfortably casual second accompanied by time and sense memory.
What you are, what you were as a child–is always inside you, quelled by your quiet, adult-hushed tones, its nature is to come forth.
Call to the child, engage it.
Or simply wait for it to release you.