Eight. Nine. The last single digits before 10. Two digits- a world that many of us live, love, experience, and then die in. When I was eight and nine, I walked home from school; I could cook simple meals; I played outside unsupervised; I knew where babies came from; I still used my imagination; and I knew that Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy weren't "real" but I believed anyway because I was afraid not to. Most of my vivid, "childhood" memories are of being eight and nine. I was self aware, I was capable of self definition, I remember having my own ideas and beliefs and truths. I was a real for real kid.
"One day," I'd whisper to myself, "One day".
So as I transition to the promised land of eight and nine (and eventually ten), I think about this perfect balance of innocence and independence. The last golden hurrah of the little girl years. This brief moment of girlhood devoid of worry and puberty. A place where boys still suck and you see your potential as infinite. No, I won't spend these days in the future, I'll spend these short-lived days in the present, in the land of eight and nine.