In my waking dreams, I am, once again, six. I am not Clementine, or Clem, but Clemmie. Princess of the Hollowed-Out Oak Tree, like the ones in the picture books.
My castle has a red door and green leaves that form a protective canopy, and I live with an old lady whose name is Grandma'am. She watches as I hop-scotch along the broken stone pavement with grass and little white flowers growing in the cracks, and she descends from her Great Rocking Chair when both my feet hit the ground before her.
The Grandma'am announces that lunch is ready as she bustles into the kitchen. Everyday after school, there is a cauldron of porridge bubbling in the crackly fireplace. My stubby limbs scramble onto my Stool painted in Robin Egg Blue, and I list down the neighbors who look like their pet dogs. Grandma'am listens as she sprinkles Fairy Dust into my daily fare. She knows how I love the peppery taste.
When I am done with my soliloquy, she returns the favor by shining up my porcelain bowl under the sink. I stay very quiet reading the story of the little boy on the milk-carton. Nobody tells me then that the best parts of life will be the small, nameless moments you spend existing alongside someone who matters to you.
After our bath, I play the air guitar on my Stool. Grandma'am sits behind me and straightens out my wet curls after brushing her own, which are much shorter than mine. My head aggressively bobs backwards every so often by the weight of the comb. She tells me that girls who do not sit still end up as Muffin Wallopers, and I slump low in the chair, pouting ostentatiously.
I get to pick out what to wear after. Sometimes, we dress richly, in fur carpets, paper crowns and golden lace in intricate patterns. We decorate my bedroom by draping hundreds of yards of ribbon over the ceiling fan and the hanging chandelier. Other times, we saunter around my bedroom in a coquettish manner, wearing nothing but our panties, loose white socks and sparkly red nail polish. The world outside is raining and muted but in here it is warm and yellow. On the silent days, I miss her a little louder.
Fashion Show is followed by Movie Time. We have hundreds of DVD books, of home videos and old movies labeled with Sharpie. Grandma'am and I bunker down in our jammies and I linger until I overstay my due. I want to ask this old house: Will you miss me like I'll miss you? When will I get to see you next? Will you wonder how much I've changed every time I return?
When I blink, I am returned to real life. In my aching hands is an old stuffed toy loved to death, until it is gray and matted, laid to rest in an old shoebox with the memory of my childhood. Most of my old stuff was donated to the Salvation Army when I moved away to University, so treasure like this is hard to come by. I grip every rare, fleeting moment that I am Clemmie again, but it is not enough.
Mom hurries me down from my old bedroom. What took you so long, Clem? She says. I stumble down the stairs with more boxes in hand, purposely giving in to my clumsiness. This is the edge of childhood. Please take my hand. Please don't let go.
