Remember when our dreams were simply slips of paper, scrawled in minutes, torn with careless confidence, and tacked to beams that crossed through darkness overhead in the attic above your room? We’d climb the closet—shimmying up shelves, pushing aside the plywood panel—in the day, wanting night, we’d pull ourselves into shadows and then, cloaked in dust and girlhood secrets, sit in circles of candlelight, surrounded by spiderwebs and pretty pink fiberglass, surrounded by so many possible futures, and they were all possible then—at eleven—when everything is, before we know better, but maybe we knew better then.
Elizabeth Maria Naranjo is a writer in Tempe, Arizona. Her work has appeared in Brevity Magazine, Superstition Review, Hunger Mountain, and a few other places. Find Elizabeth at elizabethmarianaranjo.com and on Twitter @emarianaranjo.