The last time I visited my sister Hilary (at AeroPig Farms!) she asked if I remembered the picture I drew of my dad as a worm. I hadn't, so she described it: I was a beautiful butterfly, my younger sister was a moth, and my dad was, well - a worm. I can't remember drawing this masterpiece that it was, but it did prompt me to ask my mom to unearth some of my old drawings.
I've been drawing since I could pick up a marker and I've seen home videos of myself. Nose three inches away from the paper with the same seriously concentrated face that my coworkers like to tease me about. Little left-clawed hand curled around the image as to not smudge the ink or drag the pencil.
So Mom pulled out some old drawings and here are a few that she found. It's difficult to describe the weird comfort and strange melancholy that crept up when I looked at the markered-up paper and little glimpses into my toddler mind. The drawings felt like almost thirty year-old snapshots of the same person I am now. The subject matter hasn't changed nor has the nebulous ordinariness and of course, the longing for magic.
There's something so mysteriously telling about a child's drawing - and now to look back at my own, I feel the strange sense that time hasn't really changed all that much.