A picture of a little girl proudly hangs against the eggshell-colored wall.
I catch a glimpse of it each time I walk by, but I urge myself not to stop and stare, for I no longer recognize the tilted head and hidden smile that was captured in black and white.
I move along, taking step after step, with my mind fixated on the portrait of this unfamiliar face.
A little girl who once hid behind the treacherous bangs her mom allowed her to so proudly wear is no longer here. She grew her hair out, straightened the water-like waves out of it, and tucked it behind her ears to showcase the features of herself she now finds beauty in.
A little girl who once feared the fall so much that she never jumped began doing just that. But I wonder what she would say if she knew how many times her body has now hit the floor. Would she be disappointed in the bruises she stood up with? Or would she simply be proud of the fact that her feet left the ground?
The little girl who for so long feared being seen is now the one flashing the lights. She’s no longer hiding behind those in front of her, finding comfort in the shadows they’ve cast behind them. She now finds solace in the light against her skin.
This picture is daunting; I cannot help but observe the almost unrecognizable resemblance between the two of us.
I look down at my hands and think if the little girl on the wall sees how her toy-sized hands have grown to grasp all that the world has thrown at her. I turn my head, questioning if this little girl will ever know that her eyes are no longer fixated on the ground beneath her; she now holds her head up high.
The delicate soul of the little one that is encapsulated in the flash of the camera has faded. The pureness of her mind and gentleness of her heart have been tested. She has grown.
I wipe the tears that roll down my cheek as the life of this little girl shines in her doll-like eyes. She’s no longer dreaming of the unattainable, like being a princess in a kingdom of her own. Rather, she’s precisely planning her life to come.
Standing here, I cannot help but wonder if the little girl framed in front of me would be proud of who now stands in front of her.
I fight to see her—to recognize her—and although she may never see me, I continue on in the hopes that this little girl is proudly watching each time I pass by the eggshell-colored wall.
