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The familiar callused hands of my father reminded me of when we were seven. A time when she wasn't afraid to dance or tell her parents about boys. She would follow trails of ants back to their hill and scream in terror as her brother crushed their hard work. She would capture ladybugs in her palms and ask for a goodnight lullaby. She waltzed with lightning bugs and slept in treehouses. The soundtrack to those days was a mixture of Taylor Swift and her father's old music. The thrum of a guitar brought a spring to her step. A flashlight and a novel could always be found under her mattress. That girl wanted to race the boys and would skin her knees too often. She would always pick fight over fleeing. She was insanely competitive and loved a challenge. She was naive and so directionally challenged. She was brave and loved rivers. She lived for the smell of the rain. That girl wrote stories I now cringe at and her greatest nemesis was timed math tests. Now I am hesitant to acknowledge her. That girl scares me and encourages me at the same time. She makes me want to go to school in my pajamas and obsess over fantasy. Sometimes I listen to her and other times I slip away from her. She is an echo that is slowly fading, a stone slowly sinking, a ripple soon to vanish. But for her, I sing in the shower and dance in the rain.

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