The Setting Sun

The Setting Sun

A small child sits down next to me and tells me about her life. Her blond pigtails bob up and down as she speaks, the words stumbling over one another like dominoes, as she excitedly tries to get them out. Her skin is pale and soft, and her cheeks rosy, with a light dusting of freckles across them and splattered also on her nose. She is wearing a pale blue T-shirt, with a small yellowish stain at the bottom, and cut off jean shorts. Ankle length socks show above the Velcro sneakers that she wears on her tiny feet, and her knees and shins are scraped and bruised, perhaps from a fall on her bicycle or from running with her playmates.

We sit on a bench at the park, as she playfully kicks the dirt beneath us. A “Wet Paint” sign is posted on the side of the bench, but it is clearly evident that the paint has long ago dried in the warm July sun. Squirrels scatter across the freshly cut grass and bumblebees are melodically buzzing around the dandelions. The little girl picks one of the dandelions out of the ground, and twirls the squishy stem between her pudgy fingers for a few seconds, before thrusting it under my chin. “You like butter!” she giggles. The green-eyed six-year old then begins to tell me a little about herself.

Like most other children her age, she likes to play. Play in the dirt, play outside, and play with her friends. She tells me that she especially likes playing “house.” Using her dolls as babies, she imitates the role of mother. The little girl nurtures, feeds, and clothes these nonliving objects, maybe for fun now, but also in preparation for another time to come in her life. As she speaks, I notice the doll that is lying beside her on the bench. It has golden pigtails and soft green eyes, the same as she, and is clothed in a delicate lavender dress speckled with tiny violet flowers. I can tell that she carries it around with her everywhere.

She tells me about her favorite aunt, only ten years older than herself, but still one of her role models. She explains how the two of them often sit around watching The Brady Bunch reruns while eating Lucky Charms. Her aunt was the one who showed her how to save the candy-like marshmallows until the end; a special treat. She whispers that the pink heart marshmallows are her personal favorite.

She wakes up on Saturday mornings to watch Muppet Babies, her preferred cartoon. Handing her a Flintstones vitamin, the little girl’s mother repeatedly tells her that she sits too close to the television, a problem that may later result in the need for corrective lenses.

A year or two seems to pass as we sit there, and I see the small child in a different light. Her hair is pulled back in a long, loose braid, and her fingernails are coated with a light shade of pink. A little more grown up now, she has traded in her dolls for Barbies. She tells me how she and her sister play with the Barbies for hours and hours on end. They fight over the miniature dolls, and she often bribes her little sister for certain playing pieces.

The little girl holds dance contests with her cousins, puts together lemonade stands with her friends, and collects Garbage Pail Kids cards, saving some and trading others in exchange for the hard, crunchy, tasteless sticks of chewing gum that are included in the silver packages. She recalls the time she bit into an apple and crunched down on something hard. She tells me how she spit it out and threw it on her bedroom floor, only to discover the sweet taste of blood in her mouth merely moments after. She is describing the experience of losing her first tooth, and she continues to tell me about the others that are missing. There is a story for each one, which she shares with much enthusiasm and detail. She gingerly wiggles a baby tooth located in the bottom front of her mouth, explaining that it is ready to fall out any day now. Then she tells me the painful tale about how she lost her two front teeth after falling on a pile of rocks, and how she’s now unable to eat corn on the cob.

Recalling those wonderful summer vacations, she explains the family trips to the beach, and the time she thought she and her sister were going to drown in the lukewarm water, camping trips when it always seems to rain, and staying up late doing sparklers on her front steps. This would be a time when she stops using a nite lite, and when she’ll finally convince herself to sleep with her windows slightly open at night, but still slightly afraid that someone will try to break in.

The little girl seems to change again as the time gradually passes. She matures and grows before my very eyes. She tells me how she gains her initial wisdom about the birds and the bees through her elementary friends, recollecting how they secretly share their newfound knowledge with each other on the playground during recess. Standing against the cold brick building of the school, the little girls elusively whisper into each other’s ears, followed soon after by persistent giggling, which they desperately try suffocating with their mitten covered hands.

The girl continues on with her schooling. Playtime soon turns into study time, as she finds herself absorbed in schoolwork. Colorful, chubby crayons are replaced with thin, dull pencils. She tucks away her beloved storybooks on horses for thick, heavy textbooks filled with boring information on topics such as photosynthesis and federalism. She is taking PSAT’s, SAT’s, and she goes shopping for the perfect prom dress with her mother, discovering it in a small dress shop located above a general store. Senior activities are a blur, as she becomes preoccupied with thoughts and worries about college, debating when and where to attend.

She reminisces about her graduation day. With her golden shoulder length hair perfectly curled under, wearing her crisp white gown and cap, she tells how she ventured across the shiny, echoing stage to receive her diploma. She recalls what ran through her 17-year-old mind with each step that she took. Besides the fear of tripping and making a fool out of herself, she thinks about the countless memories that she has collected over the years, and the warm friendships that she has established. She remembers looking into the heated crowd of people and picking out her family. Her parents, step-parents, grandparents, and siblings; they are all there, wearing bright smiles of joy and pride. She continues walking, heading for her destination. With each step, she becomes closer to the end. She remembers wondering if this was an end or maybe a new beginning, but she isn’t quite sure of an answer. All she knows is that she is scared. After this, she will be on her own, and she realizes that there are many decisions that she will soon have to make. She questions what she wants to do with her life, wondering what will make her most happy. She then takes a man’s clammy, sweaty hand into her own, as he hands a diploma to her, and she walks down the wooden stairs of the stage, back to her cold metal seat.

The sun begins to set, and dusk soon sets in. I watch this person, now a woman, trail off in the middle of her sentence, and I notice how her unique smile seems to diminish, as she becomes lost in her own thoughts. I look off into the distance and admire the reddish-purple color of the sinking sun. I think about everything this girl has told me, as she has changed from a little girl into a young woman in only a brief amount of time, able to relive her experiences through her words. I turn to say something to her, but just as I do, she changes again, and the little girl with the bouncy blond pigtails jumps up and quickly runs off. I watch her until she is out of sight. Looking down on the bench beside me, I pick up the soiled doll that she has left behind and cradle it close against my chest. Thinking about everything I have learned about today, I realize something. I can see myself in that little girl, as I silently agree with everything she is describing.

My own worries catch up to me today, and I can feel them knot up in my throat as if I can’t breathe. My stomach flip-flops as if my organs are in the midst of learning gymnastics. I realize something then…that green-eyed, freckle faced little girl that I was just talking to is someone that I actually know quite well.


That little girl is me.