The other night I was sitting on my bed and looking around my room and wondering just how I came to be.
"Mom," I called, "what am I doing here?"
And she replied, in a loud voice that flew up the stairs and through my bedroom door, "My dear, you are being."
I stayed there, sitting on my bed, for a good deal of time, pondering over the simplicity and complexity of my existence.
And them I called to her again.
"Mom, why am I being?"
She said, matter-of-factly, "Honey, you have to find the why for yourself."
I was quiet for a long time after that. I stretched out my legs and picked at a scab on my lower shin.
"Why?" I asked myself, for I did not know.
So I called my friend. The phone rang three times before she answered.
"Hello," I commenced, "why are you here?"
She answered, "I am here because someday I am going to grow up and I am going to find a handsome prince and he is going to look at me warmly and compliment me on my wonderful gown and ask me to be his princess. Then I can have all of the shoes and all of the necklaces and all of the dresses that I could ever want."
"Oh, I see. Thank you," I said as I quickly hung up.
I did not think that my friend's "why" was my "why". I did not care much for fancy gowns.
So I called my Aunt Shirley.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Aunt Shirley. Why are you here?"
"Oh, sweetie. Right now I'm just here to pay the mortgage and make sure I don't lose my job," she replied.
"Oh, I see. Thank you," I said as I quickly hung up.
I did not think that Aunt Shirley's "why" was my "why", either. I didn't much care for mortgages or jobs.
So I called my brother into my bedroom.
"What is it," he said, exasperation melting in his mouth.
"Hello. Why are you here?"
"I'm here because you yelled my name."
And with that, he left.
"Oh, I see. Thank you," I shouted after him.
Again, I didn't think that my brother's "why" was my "why". I did not exist merely to appear where people said my name or where people expected me to. I had my own path to follow.
I looked up at the ceiling for answers but the clean and perfect gray brought me nothing. So I went outside and sat on the damp, tired grass and looked at the stars. I tilted my head back as far as it could go so that I could almost see the entire sky. It was so vast and indefinable, sort of like me.
The voice of the moon tumbled down to my ears, repeating the most beautiful words in our language-- words like simplicity and tranquility and nostalgia and robin and thought. And the moon smiled.
"You're right, moon," I whispered. "Maybe I am not here for one reason. Maybe I am not here to wear gowns or to pay a mortgage or because someone told me to be. Maybe I am here to eat ice cream and hug my mom, to sing my favorite song and read about countries far across the sea-- maybe even to visit them. And maybe I'm here to look at the stars and the moon, and to be be happy. And maybe that's all."
With that, I picked myself up off of the ground, made my own trail to a glowing house, told my parents I loved them, and went to sleep.
