The World is a Beautiful Place

Imaginary Games
by Julie Hackett
Picture this: a girl, prancing about her lawn in her mother’s old blouse and shorts, dirt smeared across her palms and
scrapes on her knees, eyes bright with excitement, hair wild from exertion. Now, picture the same exact scene, only replace
that little five-year-old with a 13-year-old. That was me.
Growing up with two older sisters, it was natural to engross myself in the imaginative worlds we created. Though we had
our various forms of entertainment and exploration, nothing could surpass our “imaginary games.”
Every Saturday morning, my sisters and I would wake up, eat breakfast, and race each other to “the wardrobe.” This cabinet
consisted entirely of old ratty outfits from my mother’s preppy college years, and bizarre clothes from my father’s
mullet, head-banging years. All of these elements combined to create a hodge-podge of mothballscented,
mud-stained apparel that would give us our new identities. We would pour ourselves
into these costumes, and immediately adopt the persona that came
with the outfit. Jess was always an elf, towing a leather satchel
and holding a stick with a horse’s head between her legs, galloping
about as Arwen from Rivendell. Jaclyn was somewhat more dramatic,
usually the wife of a soldier at war, tending to her house and
caring for the children—the sad effect of what Lifetime television network
can do to a child in her prime.
I was always the fairy animal-caretaker; I would strap on my plastic
wings from the costume of Halloween past, my mother’s old white silk
blouse, and a pair of torn shorts. I never ever wore shoes—the product of
hippie-blooded tree huggers, even at a young age. My role in the games
was to watch over everyone’s pets and animals. I would display my stuffed
creatures, each with its own little scarf to cuddle in, and prance about the
lawn collecting twigs and berries for them to eat. I would dance my way
through the grass, twirl among the trees, and jump and leap high enough to
reach the branches.
Eventually, time brought the ugly truth to my eyes of fantasy: I could not play
dress-up forever. I was forced to admit that I needed to officially grow up, and live
my way through reality as opposed to playing my way through fantasy. The time
came when it wasn’t appropriate for me to dress in old clothes and run around pretending
to be a fairy anymore. One day, on a crisp autumn morning, I marched to my
trunk and packed up my clothes, the garments that allowed me to assume the identity
of anyone and anything, one last time. Distraught, I wept for a few minutes, having
a moment of silence for my imagination and childish joys.
That was when it struck me, like a brick to the head. Who made the rule that growing
up meant abandoning creativity and fun? I could still be as creative, goofy, and childlike
as ever. Perhaps I’d have to wear my own clothes, and shoes when necessary, but I
didn’t have to change or lose a part of myself as I grew. Today, I still dance my way through life, only now in studios, and with
shoes. I play and work with animals every spare chance I get. I create worlds of adventure, romance, mystery, and excitement
through my writing and artwork. But secretly, I sit up late at night allowing my brain to roam through its absolute limits as I picture
that bright-eyed, messy 13-year-old still prancing about in her mother’s old clothes. As I sleep, I dream of my years of fantasy
that used to be, and my years of adventure that are to come.
Sarah Song
45