“I don’t like spiders,” she says. The little girl with golden and strawberry tinted hair. She’s the one who said that; the girl with the pink corduroy dress and matching sneakers.
“Spiders won’t hurt you,” the other says. The girl with blonde hair a little longer than her shoulders; she’s the one who replied. Her hair is almost the same color as the other girl, except it’s lost some of its youthful glow and is ash tinted rather than strawberry. She’s older, an early teenager, and much taller than the pink corduroy girl. She’s mature; mellow but serious. She seems deep in thought, like she’s not there, not sitting on a swing, but elsewhere, thinking about something opposite of spiders.
“I know…” pink corduroy says. It seems like she should say more, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sways back and forth on her green rubber swing, looking at her bubblegum colored sneakers. She watches them as she takes three, four, five steps backward – until she can’t push the swing back any farther – and then takes them from the ground with a jump. She swings forward and back a few times, but comes to a halt when she forgets to pump her legs. Or maybe it’s not so much that she’s forgotten as she’s never learned how.
There is a long moment before either says anything. The teenager seems to be listening to the chirp of nearby crickets or maybe the hum of a car’s distant radio, and so she doesn’t talk for quite some time. When she does, her tone is calm.
“Why don’t you like spiders then?” she asks, interrupting the silence. Her voice shows no tone of even the slightest curiosity. She seems to be content with staring into the distance with a blank expression in her deep eyes, not with concentrating on a preschooler’s opinion of an eight-legged insect.
Pink corduroy focuses on the question carefully, as if she wants to reply with an insightful, college-level answer. The pucker between her eyebrows lifts and thins as she comes to a conclusion.
“They scare me,” she finally says. The answer is so simple and cliché that the teenager laughs. Pink corduroy looks at her incredulously, as if she had just handed her best artwork to the teacher and wasn’t given a gold star for her handy work. The teenager just shakes her head, smiling gently, and pats pink corduroy’s hair.
“There’s nothing to… be… sc— ” the teenager slows in the middle of her sentence and then stops altogether, as if she just realized that she needed to think about what she said before she said it. There’s nothing to be scared of. That’s what the ashen-haired girl was going to say. But nothing was an understatement. There were many things to be scared of: swimming in the deep end of the pool without floaties, climbing a tall, unsteady tree, not looking both ways before crossing the street.
So many things to be scared of; and so telling the little girl with the pink corduroy dress that there wasn’t anything to be scared of would be a lie. And lying was bad. She had told pink corduroy never to lie. How hypocritical would it be for a person to tell a little girl a lie after they told her that lying was bad? It would be very hypocritical. And so she couldn’t tell pink corduroy that there was nothing to be scared of. But, what would she tell her then?
The teenager looks down at pink corduroy and sees an expectant expression on the girl’s face. She’s waiting for a reply. She’s waiting to be reassured. She’s waiting for a reason to not be afraid of spiders. The teenager smiles at pink corduroy. But before she can say anything reassuring, the little girl stands up from the swing and skips over to a doll she had dropped in the grass a few yards away. She then comes back to the teenager, doll in hand, and sits on the swing, the toy cradled in her little arms as if it were made of an incredibly breakable glass instead of the sturdy, machine-washable material that it was. Pink corduroy looks into the doll’s face with the most respect and the sweetest love the teenager has ever seen in any little girl’s face before. She tries again to swing; but because she can’t hold onto the swing and her toy at the same time, she looks up at the teenager and says,
“Can you hold her?”
The teenager replies, “of course”, and pink corduroy hands the doll to her. After the toy is out of her hands, the little girl begins to attempt swinging again, more relaxed now that her arms are free and able to hold on.
The teenager looks down at the doll and contemplates what she should say about the spiders. Telling the little girl that there was nothing to be afraid of would be a lie… but telling her that there was something to be afraid of would scare her…
But, she’d grow up one day and realize that there was everything to be afraid of anyway. She’d grow up and be frightened… her strength and courage will keep her standing tall, though. She will need strength and courage. She needs that now. Courage to face her fear of spiders and strength to fight them.
She doesn’t have to know that everything’s to be scared of, thought the teenager; she doesn’t have to learn that yet. She’ll grow up and learn that. But she doesn’t have to grow up now.
Then the little girl beside the teenager laughs a twinkling, high-pitched squeal of excitement as she realizes that she’s learned to swing all by herself.
“Look baby,” pink corduroy says to the doll, propped up in the teenager’s arms, “mommy’s swinging. Someday, you can swing too.”
No, the teenager thought happily, she doesn’t have to grow up yet.
“Spiders won’t hurt you,” the other says. The girl with blonde hair a little longer than her shoulders; she’s the one who replied. Her hair is almost the same color as the other girl, except it’s lost some of its youthful glow and is ash tinted rather than strawberry. She’s older, an early teenager, and much taller than the pink corduroy girl. She’s mature; mellow but serious. She seems deep in thought, like she’s not there, not sitting on a swing, but elsewhere, thinking about something opposite of spiders.
“I know…” pink corduroy says. It seems like she should say more, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sways back and forth on her green rubber swing, looking at her bubblegum colored sneakers. She watches them as she takes three, four, five steps backward – until she can’t push the swing back any farther – and then takes them from the ground with a jump. She swings forward and back a few times, but comes to a halt when she forgets to pump her legs. Or maybe it’s not so much that she’s forgotten as she’s never learned how.
There is a long moment before either says anything. The teenager seems to be listening to the chirp of nearby crickets or maybe the hum of a car’s distant radio, and so she doesn’t talk for quite some time. When she does, her tone is calm.
“Why don’t you like spiders then?” she asks, interrupting the silence. Her voice shows no tone of even the slightest curiosity. She seems to be content with staring into the distance with a blank expression in her deep eyes, not with concentrating on a preschooler’s opinion of an eight-legged insect.
Pink corduroy focuses on the question carefully, as if she wants to reply with an insightful, college-level answer. The pucker between her eyebrows lifts and thins as she comes to a conclusion.
“They scare me,” she finally says. The answer is so simple and cliché that the teenager laughs. Pink corduroy looks at her incredulously, as if she had just handed her best artwork to the teacher and wasn’t given a gold star for her handy work. The teenager just shakes her head, smiling gently, and pats pink corduroy’s hair.
“There’s nothing to… be… sc— ” the teenager slows in the middle of her sentence and then stops altogether, as if she just realized that she needed to think about what she said before she said it. There’s nothing to be scared of. That’s what the ashen-haired girl was going to say. But nothing was an understatement. There were many things to be scared of: swimming in the deep end of the pool without floaties, climbing a tall, unsteady tree, not looking both ways before crossing the street.
So many things to be scared of; and so telling the little girl with the pink corduroy dress that there wasn’t anything to be scared of would be a lie. And lying was bad. She had told pink corduroy never to lie. How hypocritical would it be for a person to tell a little girl a lie after they told her that lying was bad? It would be very hypocritical. And so she couldn’t tell pink corduroy that there was nothing to be scared of. But, what would she tell her then?
The teenager looks down at pink corduroy and sees an expectant expression on the girl’s face. She’s waiting for a reply. She’s waiting to be reassured. She’s waiting for a reason to not be afraid of spiders. The teenager smiles at pink corduroy. But before she can say anything reassuring, the little girl stands up from the swing and skips over to a doll she had dropped in the grass a few yards away. She then comes back to the teenager, doll in hand, and sits on the swing, the toy cradled in her little arms as if it were made of an incredibly breakable glass instead of the sturdy, machine-washable material that it was. Pink corduroy looks into the doll’s face with the most respect and the sweetest love the teenager has ever seen in any little girl’s face before. She tries again to swing; but because she can’t hold onto the swing and her toy at the same time, she looks up at the teenager and says,
“Can you hold her?”
The teenager replies, “of course”, and pink corduroy hands the doll to her. After the toy is out of her hands, the little girl begins to attempt swinging again, more relaxed now that her arms are free and able to hold on.
The teenager looks down at the doll and contemplates what she should say about the spiders. Telling the little girl that there was nothing to be afraid of would be a lie… but telling her that there was something to be afraid of would scare her…
But, she’d grow up one day and realize that there was everything to be afraid of anyway. She’d grow up and be frightened… her strength and courage will keep her standing tall, though. She will need strength and courage. She needs that now. Courage to face her fear of spiders and strength to fight them.
She doesn’t have to know that everything’s to be scared of, thought the teenager; she doesn’t have to learn that yet. She’ll grow up and learn that. But she doesn’t have to grow up now.
Then the little girl beside the teenager laughs a twinkling, high-pitched squeal of excitement as she realizes that she’s learned to swing all by herself.
“Look baby,” pink corduroy says to the doll, propped up in the teenager’s arms, “mommy’s swinging. Someday, you can swing too.”
No, the teenager thought happily, she doesn’t have to grow up yet.
Incitata
millievm97
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