I wrote this after my final creative writing class of college. It’s mostly true. The story quoted in italics is by Geoff Mak.
On the last day of class, my creative writing professor gave us miniature anthologies of the one-line stories we had written during the quarter. Each was made from one sheet of paper, folded into squares that were smaller than my palm, and sewed with yellow and blue string.
I walked home in the dark and cut open the folded edges with my pocketknife, unwilling to wait until I got to my apartment. There was something wonderfully childish about it, about not looking where I was going while using a sharp blade at night, alone. After the pages were free, I strained to read the stories, lifting up the little book and tilting it to catch the last of the street light – She turned eleven – before I left the dim circle, and then still holding the book out until the light of the next lamp hit me and I could finish it – She turned twelve. It was like licking the last of the ice cream from the bottom of the bowl, undignified and better for it.
If there is anything that I have learned at Davis, it is this: there is nothing wrong with being a child, even when you’re an adult.
I have a stuffed hippo on my head, mismatched socks on my feet, and I haven’t been bored in ages. Not even hot tea on rainy days is as good as this.