Where a Child's Dream Goes to Die

In her hazy memory, a child’s cruel recollection mocks her. The way she remembers it, the toys are still animated, winding their own keys and whispering to each other in dust motes and languages she can no longer comprehend. She spots the cardboard castle she built once with her brother, now rising to new heights, windows lined with bubblegum wrappers glowing in a green sun that no longer shines on her. Blue balloons float just above, tethered to the days and playdates and naptimes she thought would never end. Each Barbie's head bursts and bubbles and breaks. She reaches for the swing set planted in the center of the room, and when she sits, she can hear the laughter of children she used to know, only now they are laughing at her. A small bicycle pedals itself in circles around her. It no longer needs her either. She unlocks a treasure chest and finds letters she wrote to herself in crayon, the words running like water, her six-year-old genius impossible to decipher now. The attic ceiling begins to collapse, as if the room is folding back into its toy box, and by the time the ballerina song sings, she knows she must leave or be lost to permanent youth. Outside, the world of dry paint and damp soil is calling. Outside, a child's dream is sentenced to death.