ONCE I WAS A FEW YEARS OLD

Once I was nursed, washed, weaned and wrapped in diapers with my excreta constantly spewing next to my tout baby epidermis. I could not tell a minute from a second and my communiqué was gurgles, coos, giggles, wails, pouts, drools and wiggles. First there was Mother then Father then people whom I forgot as soon as they left. I crawled then stumbled whereas now I walk.  Once I was a few years old.

I wore my sandals the other way round: it felt so right. I ran up and down church pews, so confident in my Father’s house. Inside-out, outside-in; what were those? Right, left, back, front, mauve, purple-I did not care for complications and just wanted to be. I ate what was served although I craved the sticky sweet affections of confectionary. I was told when my own stomach was full or when my brain was empty. Once I was a few years old.

I was made ready for everything and everything was made ready for me. The calendar held no meaning for me. I was told its Sunday when Father travelled, Monday when Mother wore her lab coat and Saturday when I slept in. Christmas was heralded by crepe paper everywhere and New Year was a countdown I screamed out. Diwali was a sky-lit horizon and Ramadhan was not a strict fast for me. Easter was a puzzling crucifix that horrified me at the memories of movies behind it. Once I was a few years old.

There were emotions to be felt, understood and later managed. The endless retinue of friends to be made, fights to pick, tantrums to throw, falls to bandage or walk off, songs to sing, words to learn, adults to respect, tears to dry out, chores to do…how did I do it all? I morphed so fast yet so slow that I fail to grasp the twelve years that slipped out of my expected eighty. Once I was a few years old.

Pimples, menarche, pubarche, adrenarche, crushes, rebellion, self-consciousness- juggling all this with school, passage rites and the unclear dawn of adulthood. Was it the allure of make-or-break decisions? Or maybe the daunting dare to finally be all I had imagined or more? Now I was more than a few years old, less than what I needed to regret being my age.