I was at a primary school last week telling my story about sneaking into the witch’s mansion. The adventure happened when I was nine years old. My best friend, Wendy was ten. I love telling it because it makes me feel like an ancient
storyteller. I watch their eyes widen, their mouths drop. I know when to go slow, when to speed up. And when to pause.
At the end of my talk there is question time. Many questions are about the witch in the mansion story. ‘Is it true?’ they ask. ‘Is the house real?’ ‘Where is the house?’ ‘What happened to the witch?’ ‘Did you take anything from the mansion?’ ‘What happened to her crow?’
But at the end of this particular session, a student in the front row quietly said, ‘Is Wendy still a little girl?’
I was silent for a moment. I was smiling on the inside at how beautiful and right this question was.
I wanted to say, ‘Yes, Wendy is still ten years old.’ I wanted to tell her about cyclical time rather than linear time. I wanted to say that tomorrows are yesterdays. That beginnings and endings all exist together in this one breath of a moment.
I wanted to, but I didn’t.