Butterflies and Hurricanes

My brother and I played with dolls well into our teens. We weren’t particularly proud of that. In fact, we played in secret. Summer afternoons were long, and we spent a major part of the day spinning intricate stories of love, revenge, mystery, and crimes. 

There were talking dogs and flying forests. There was music, dancing, drama and even childbirth. We didn’t understand much about the world, but this was like our secret language. We understood it. 

Between strict discipline in school and a daily routine at home, this was when we felt deliriously happy. This was when anything could be anything. Every night we went to sleep deciding the next day’s story, and every afternoon we played it out. 

It was perfect. Until it wasn’t. 

A snide remark from a friend was all it took. Something broke inside us. As shame took over, we decided it was time to stop. A part of me was relieved because we could finally stop sneaking around and hiding the fact that we still hadn’t grown up. 

The night we packed up our dolls in boxes, it felt like we were packing up our childhood along with our shame. Now when I think back, I feel that’s the stupidest thing we ever did.