My Own Little Bridge to Terabithia
I miss those moments when my head was buried in books and I can just picture stories in my head like a movie. I feel as though my mind isn’t as imaginative as my ten-year-old self used to be. I used to feel alive in my own perfect little world, where I’m the hero and the creator.
I created an bridge in my backyard that is invisible to the naked eye.
I would tell my little brother I would cross over to my very own fantasy island full of monsters I would ward off to protect my people. I called it my very own Bridge to Terabithia, a name I carefully chose that reflected my world. There, nobody can bother us, and monsters can be immediately killed by plastic Star Wars Light Sabers. I would take my brother with me on most occasions.
Sometimes my bridges would be fallen trees, or a puddle, or even dirty icy snow accumulated by the snow tracks on trucks.
I loved being outside and being one with the dandelions, the mud, the worms, and the cleanly cut grass. It my own blank canvas that I intended to cover with different colors.
But now that it is covered with so many colors, I cannot quite see the original blank canvas anymore. A fallen tree is just a tree, and nothing more. I can no longer see the bridge that can take me to my fantasy world.