I am on the hunt for Carefree. I once was best friends with Carefree but I haven’t seen her since I was about seven.
You know Carefree. She’s the one who’s barefoot. She’s not worried about being hungry because she’s got a peanut butter sandwich and a dollar in her backpack. She knows when the ice cream man is coming and that’s all that’s important.
She doesn’t worry. She doesn’t fret. She doesn’t think about the future unless it’s happening tomorrow. She’s just living her life.
If she steps on a piece of glass on the playground, she cries. But she never thinks about stepping on a piece of glass ahead of time. If she did, she’d be looking down all the time or wearing shoes. Then she wouldn’t be Carefree. She’d be Careful.
I am tired of being with Careful and want to be with Carefree.
Do you have to be seven to pal around with Carefree? That’s my question. Is it a state of mind only for people with a lot of blank space in their brains? For people, like children, who are too dumb to know how hazardous the world is?
Oh, sometimes I have glimmers of Carefree, maybe when I’m on a road that isn’t on the map, swimming in a very blue lake, sitting in the sand amidst the ferns and blueberry plants and filling my cup with tiny ripe blueberries. It is just enough, like a wee shot of abandon, to remind me what being with Carefree feels like.
And then she’s gone. Just like that. Snap.
I’m not hopeful but I’m going to stick with the hunt. No matter how long it takes.
I want her back.
Because I have a pain in my neck, literally and now for days, I am especially missing Carefree and wish we could hook up. This is a post from last summer.