But then I looked out of my window.
I live opposite a park.
You're a little girl in a pink, long sleeved top, and denim cutoffs. You have just under shoulder length innocent blonde hair, the type only children under ten have.
You're dancing, dancing next to a woman in a blue top and a long brown skirt. She looks like she could be your mother, but I can't tell from this distance.
I envy you, with both your ability to do cartwheels and those bright, unspoiled eyes, those baby teeth in a little pink-mouthed smile. I haven't seen that smile leave your face once. Unspoiled naivete. Ignorance isn't bliss, but what children have, lucky children; that is.
You're a cute kid. I wasn't a cute kid. Not really. I may have been a happy little thing, but I was too sharp to be cute.
I was an awkward kid, and until about year nine I had no clue of what was expected.
You look well adjusted, much more so than I feel currently, but I don't want to imagine your future. Innocence is corrupted, almost always.
Even through my jealousy, and my over analysis, I smile when I look at you. You've just got this happy, exuberant feeling about you.
It seems a little forboding. But let's not worry about that.
Enjoy the moment.
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