I remember being three years old and looking in my mother’s full-length mirror in her bedroom.
There I was. Little Rizzy. Bobbed brown hair, small frowning mouth, and curious dark eyes.
I had already heard grown-ups saying things about how time just flies, how quickly I was growing up. Time didn’t seem to move quickly to me. It crawled. I wondered what on earth they could be talking about.
I supposed that there came a switch once you became old enough when suddenly time would move quicker. Little three-year-old me assumed that God wanted to be nice to His little ones, so He lets us feel like time is crawling while we’re small so we experience the magic of His creation to its fullest before we grow up and become blind.
Already I had heard ominous rumblings of how horrible it is to become an adult. Adults talked about how awful adulthood is all the time. And none of them seemed to remember what it was like to be a child. They had all forgotten. Which struck three-year-old me as being very sad, because how could you forget about how wonderful it is to be small.
So I looked at myself in the mirror and sent future me a message:
“Don’t forget. Whatever you do, don’t forget this moment. Don’t forget about me. Don’t forget about who you really are. No matter how old you get, you’ll always be me, and I’ll always be you.”
I have not forgotten.
I do not intend to.