"If the kid that was you five years ago showed up in your bedroom today, what would you do with them? What would you tell them?"
It’s difficult to fathom, almost impossible to predict, the thoughts that would stream through my brain, the surprise that would break through my every understanding of science and magic and common sense- if my little, six-year-old self showed up in my bedroom today. Besides the utter shock and fear that would course through my veins, I would, of course, feel obliged to show some hospitality, perhaps invite her-me-Ellah to take a seat on my stuffed-animal-strewn bed. Maybe Ellah would gasp in recognition at the rainbow rabbit toy stuffed under my thick warm blanket or rush to the window, jaw dropped, as she gazes at the inky blue waves crashing mercilessly against the shore. Then she would, possibly, leap into my waiting arms and laugh and cry as she-we recall good days-and bad ones, the long nights-and short ones, and hours running in the sunshine and jumping in the puddles made by the rain that comes-and came-to us every spring, and know-we’ll know- that it, at least, will never change.
But soon, after sharing our fears and hopes and dreams, curious, stubborn little me will want to know about the future, about her future, about our future. And I’ll have to tell her. To warn her about a thing-a detail- a disease- That will change her-my-our lives. And I’ll inform her-I’ll whisper into her little ear- about the icy blizzard in our abdomen, the monstrous waves, the churning sea-Crohn’s. I’ll explain to her about those stomach aches she must be feeling, and she’ll sympathize, and I’ll talk to her about the medications-the tasty ones, and gross ones, the gummies and the pills, the Miralax and the Modulen. And I’ll help her, with a sad smile on my face, comprehend the sacrifices that come with staying healthy, the diet that she must strictly follow to prevent a war in her digestive system. I’ll inform her of the surgeries and the procedures, the pinpricks and the needles, the blood tests and the colonoscopies. I’ll explain the MRI to her, the seemingly interminable tunnel in which I spent hours waiting, waiting, waiting, holding my breath, then letting it out as the voice-that deep, reassuring voice- commands me to. And our mother, “tired” after sitting by my hospital bed jokingly noted, “Well, that was my worst day ever.” And, most importantly, I’ll tell six-year-old Ellah to be strong, to be strong for our dad, strong for our mom, strong for our little sister, strong for us. Because being strong-It’s the farthest thing that I needed to be as a six-year-old. Strong was something foreign, like lifting weights. Strong was a superhero that could carry school buses. Strong was someone-a person that could hoist me up, up, up on their shoulders. Strong used to be something you could see from the outside, but little did I know that strong was something that I needed within-something that I needed to be.
Then I’ll take her chubby little hand and she’ll grasp my finger tightly, and I’ll guide her gently but surely to a polished wooden shelf stretching up, up, up, stuffed with stories and tales of mystery and suspense and happiness and love. And she will tilt her head back, a familiar expression dawning her youthful face, expressing the pleasure of gazing at the rows and rows of books from her short vantage point. And I-I would fill my hands with novels and poems for little Ellah to reach for, tales for her to devour and study and read, one by one. She’ll smile, sitting in my lap, as she inhales the scent of paper from the pages of those little fairy tales I used to like; she likes; and frown, confused, as I show her Little Women and Harry Potter and Jane Eyre, titles I know she’ll-eventually-grow to treasure as much as I do now, titles, I want her to treasure as much as I do now, to expose her to different genres and reading levels. She’ll look at me, with my own, wide brown eyes and see me as a fortune teller from a myth she has heard, and I would see her as a time traveler from a book I had read, both viewing each other-ourselves with curiosity we usually reserve only for the many books that line the shelves.
I could not have let her go-could not have brought myself to release her without a final treat, a parting memory to be made. I’ll escort her to a large glass door and push it open with a ding, stepping into a crowded, noisy shop. She’ll cover her ears but gasp as she sees the tables stuffed with falafel and hummus and pitas and greens. She’ll drag me to the spread, mouth watering, eyes wide. As we take a seat, I’ll grab a pita, carefully spread the hummus on its fluffy white inside, and stuff it with cucumber and tomato salad, pickles, and, of course, two round falafels. And I’ll place it in her waiting hands and watch-watch as she pops the falafels into her mouth and rips off slices from the fresh white bread-watch, watch as she munches the salad with a grin and grabs a new pita from a stack, smearing it with babaganoush. I’ll watch wistfully as she licks the last of the hummus off her round fingers and wish that whatever magic that had brought little Ellah here could give me just a little bite-but I know it won’t, it never will, and as I lay eyes upon my little self once more, my stomach would suddenly fill, my head playing and replaying a memory of me-six years old-munching on a pita falafel. And I would smile, comforted by the fact that memories never go away.
Of all the things I would have told myself-all the sights I would have taken my younger self to see-all the books I would have let little Ellah read-all the hints I could ever give her about her future-I would hope that she would come away with this: Although food is not forever, and books are not forever, and even though Crohn’s is forever-memories last even longer, boil even stronger; memories of books, or food, or moments, or hours, or days, or nights-so vivid that you can almost-almost relieve those minutes of reading a thrilling tale in a hammock, slowly, slowly swinging; or that last bit of hummus you lick off your nose; or maybe the sensation of the sand in between your toes, the waves licking your ankles-- these precious memories should be cherished, Little Ellah, in their own library stretching from here into the starry night sky wobbling as it reaches the moon. Because, memories, they never go away. Oh, those priceless memories, they matter more than anything else.
❤️ A huge thanks to my english teacher for encouraging me to write and coming up with this incredible prompt.
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