My mother tells me I was always brave.
That I would run from her safely held hand to climb trees and walls and things we passed on the street.
At first she was afraid, until she noticed my surefooted ease.
She tells me that I did not laugh or cry without good reason
And that I never spoke unless I had something important to say.
She says I did a lot of looking around and watching, learning.
That I was detail-oriented about my interests.
All-consumed by passions.
I was sure of myself every step of the way.
Maybe I have some things to learn from Little Me.
What happened in this life that I am suddenly sure of nothing?
Where did I drop my courage?
What happened to the intensity with which I listened and observed?
Where is the thoughtfulness behind my words?
And why do they call it growing up when I had all the tools I needed the moment I came into this world?
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