Thoughts in Bold Ink

Bubbles

"Bubbles? At your age?"

What? I don't see the problem.

I love bubbles as much as I love

Twirling and skipping and giggling

But I suppose you'd admonish that as well

Is it because it's...childish? Immature?

I'm sorry, I forgot that things like

Blowing dandelions and climbing trees

Are for ages six to ten? Nine?

Oh, little children want to be adults, now.

I forgot about that. I forgot that

Being mature means working, talking about politics,

Sipping coffee in the morning quietly...

Oh, adults are always quiet! They're supposed to be

Adults "don't have time" for chutes and ladders

And jump ropes and hula hoops and bubbles

And swings and slides and merry-go-rounds

And giggles and twirls and flowers and trees

And butterflies and ice-cream trucks

And laughter and games and fun and love and life...

Or is that a lie? When do you stop being a child?

When you become eighteen? Because you're still unsure of life

And you never stopped liking bubbles: you just

Couldn't afford to buy bubbles with all the rent, tuition,

Grocery bills, car payments, and other various bills

Plus, you can't fit bubbles into your schedule

When you have doctor's appointments, tickets to fight,

Concerts to go to, a job a three...three!

Oh, how you wish you were three!

When you knew of nothing else but games and play...

Or did you? You weren't mindless and dumb

You knew of one thing, and that was joy

More than anything, you wanted happiness

And you knew you were happy when you blew bubbles...

I take the bubbles out of my bag

And blow it on your nose

Hastily, you snatch the bubbles from me

Demanding wittily, "Give me that!"

You know what happens next...

How does it feel? To feel time freezing

As you go back in time

And become a child forever?