Cait Bentley
Cotton-soft cloth with patches of silk white and baby blue,
a tiny duck in the center with a flapping wing and orange beak
I rubbed against my lips and chewed with my budding milk teeth
to soothe the tears and fears of witches and demons
lurking around.
A towering Barbie Dreamhouse my father built,
filled with endless story times of
magical escapades and misadventures,
no Ken allowed.
Highlighter yellow softballs
tossed between gloves infield
while I drew smiles and flowers
in the bone-dry dirt.
Camping in the New Hampshire woods,
splashing in the pond
in a one-piece cherry red bathing suit,
cycling on rock riddled and bumpy tree root trails,
bonfire songs and sticky s’mores,
sleeping inside of a green tarp yurt.
Constrictive pink ballet shoes I tossed off with glee;
tutus and leotards weren’t for me.
A wide-ruled composition notebook
decorated with kitty and ninja turtle stickers
where I spent hours writing my first stories,
adventures of apple farms,
unicorns,
and pirates.
Buckets of plastic Rainbow Loom hoops
for trading friendship bracelets.
The paper-mache volcano I was more enthralled with painting
fiery red, mellow orange, and earthy brown
than mixing baking soda and vinegar.
Soaked in my play clothes
sticking to my sun-warmed skin,
squealing and giggling as I ran with my sisters
through the oscillating sprinkler.
A fuchsia Nintendo DS with a peeling butterfly sticker,
used exclusively to play Cooking Mama and Animal Crossing.
Sleek archery bows and bullseyes
hit with the snap of a string.
Chipped and peeling nail polish popping against the clear, chlorinated pool
where I played mermaids
and wrestled with my friend.
Powder blue Kumon books I raced through to ride my bike instead.
My boxing gloves and helmet colored black and green
slick with sweat after a sparring match I swore was rigged
because I should’ve cheered victory
with all the kicks and punches I threw.
Dazzling arcades with
golden coins and greasy pizza,
the animatronics singing,
“Happy Birthday to you!”
A wooden castle playground,
scalding metal monkey bars,
slides with static that zapped and zinged,
a kiddie house whose sole residents
were daddy-long-leg spiders,
a sandbox full of plastic shovels and pails.
Elios, an elephant with pink and orange striped ears
sold by the grown-up former owner
for one dollar
at a neighborhood yard sale.
A Strawberry Shortcake doll I pressed against my nose and inhaled,
a gift from a Happy Meal.
The busy movie theater
where I learned it was wrong to steal.
A pack of gas station cigarettes
my father bought for his mother
grumbling about the ridiculousness of five dollar smokes.
Soft little frogs, I swore weren’t slimy at all,
gently grasped from the creek beside my house
while my friends would chirp and croak.
A khaki brown guitar,
junior yet oversized in my childish arms,
fingers complimented with lines of callouses from faithful practice
at my desk and inside a studio.
Cosmic brownies:
I meticulously ate the thick brownie first,
then the rainbow chocolate balls,
finally the tooth-rotting sweet frosting
during a theater program that
cast me as tree number three
because all others outshined me,
but I poured in all my effort anyway to put on a show.
Childhood stricken,
illness ailed me;
innocence ended prematurely,
adolescence consumed me.
