I Am Not Done

There you are,

Standing in the kitchen.

While the warm stench of dinner,

lingers in every corner of the apartment.

Toys scattered all over the floor.

TV shouting laughter and cartoons.

You tell me to go clean my room.

But I am not done playing make believe.

I am not done recording my barbie dolls,

as their plastic smiles star in my little world.

I am not done hiding in the tent with my brother,

where the only sound in the room is our heartbeats.

Shushing each other and laughing

as we hear your footsteps approaching.

I am not done writing secret messages

in my tiny closet,

in a language only I know.

I am not done.

I am not ready.

You tell me to hurry

before I am late to school.

Grabbing my pink backpack,

while syrup sticks on the tips of my fingers.

Yet when I blink,

the room is dissolving by the minute.

The walls are bare and quiet.

The toys are in a donation bag.

And time is ticking louder by the second.

You still tell me to hurry.

But that voice is starting to become a memory.

And I am still not done.

Not done being your little girl.

Not done being in that tiny apartment.

Not done with the past.

Because I belong there.

In the hum of the loud tv,

and the warmth of the fading light.

And when I finally cross that stage,

I will still always belong in that room.

Full of imagination.

Full of infinite.

Full of Belonging.