“What is it? Why is your hair a mess? Why are you crying? There is no whirlwind outside of your head.” She squeezed the inside of my arm with her little hands. Her little hands only understood how drawing was more fun than playing with a ball and that was simple enough. Why was my hair a mess? What war was there? Bombs and bombs and knives and threats. But outside no whirlwind. Just you, throwing yourself around. 
A sharp sting is sent up my nose, as punishment from my soul for holding back tears. I want to be back where I belong. In bed. In my mother’s arms. In a forest. Underwater.
I am responsible. I cannot cry. But I look at you, Peppa, and although the tears build up in only your eyes, you are the strongest. You look around and wonder how everyone survives limbo- this time between being born and knowing why. Your classmates carelessly throw their arms up, screeching and giggling and throwing foam blocks around the place. But you stand, full of time and worries and the overwhelming need to kick into the air and fly off where you can be free of the rule of human ways.
But, know this. You are already free of human ways. You are beautiful. They may not know how to handle your tears but they will bathe in your pure joy and gifts.
smallbloomshloo 