the little girl downstairs and the little girl in me

I've always had the privilege of knowing all of the people living in the building that I do. I’ve always had the privilege of living in a one-family building, the walls confining my mother, father, brother, sister, and me. 

I have known the lives who put holes in the walls, I have known the dogs that tore up the couches, I have known who was coming up the stairs just from the cadence of their steps, I've always known who was in the room below mine. 

It took me months to meet my new neighbors, Kim and her husband, whose vernacular consists only of the pleasantry, “How are ya?” The puff of his cigarette smoke always hits me on the way out, along with his silence when I follow up with a “wonderful, how are you?” 

The nervous immigrant across the hall, Rejish, his daughter, and his parents are kind. I always see them outside anxiously awaiting their most lively family member to return from a long day at school. His daughter laughs loudly and always seems to be in some type of trouble. 

Chelsea, a single mother, her charmingly goofy dog, and her daughter are below. 

The little girl below me.

I learned months ago that my bedroom sits on top of a little girl's bedroom. 

We share a divider, my floor, her ceiling. My dirt, her stars. 

I remember very little of what it was like to be that age, but I do remember thinking people my age now were so grown, and I never thought that they wondered about me. 

But now, here I am, at that big grown age, and yet I feel so small against the world, and so unsure in the face of everything and anything. Here I am, so grown, but lying awake facedown on my bedroom floor, wondering what the little girl below is like, what she dreams about, what she wants to be when she grows up. 

I wanted to be a lawyer… everyone told me I was stubborn and good at arguing. Maybe a backhanded compliment. 

We are so close, and yet so far. So similar and so different. 

I wonder if the magic and wonder still exist for her or if she has begun to search for and foster it on her own? I know she knows joy because I hear her and her mother singing and dancing from the vents in my bathroom. 

My mother used to take a barrel curling iron to my bangs every morning, leaving me with one big, dramatic, bubble of a bang, with pin-straight bleached-blond hair surrounding it. I hated it so much I cried one morning, asking her to let me grow my hair out. 

The little girl downstairs, however, has the cutest braids protruding from her head and can always be seen with pink and purple barrettes holding her baby hairs in place. I hope she enjoys the time her mom spends doing her hair. 

My hair turned red, a color closely resembling my own mother's, and I ended up cutting bangs again. I wish my mom would just style them for me once more.  

I wonder if the little girl downstairs hears my music coming from the vents when I do my hair by myself?

I wonder what she thinks of me? Do I ever keep her up at night? What has my stomping revealed to her about me? I have probably Pavlovd her into my school and work schedule.

At 11 pm, I am sitting on the floor applying eyeliner and strapping on healed boots that probably shake her ceiling. She is probably fast asleep, and hopefully, I am not waking her, disrupting her dreams. 

I've begun to step more softly. 

I know she can see into my windows from the parking lot, and I see her too. 

We see each other, it just means more to me. 

At the precipice of womanhood and girlhood, the little girl below me is a reflection of being rooted through the whimsy and curiosity that I have within me. I used to stare up at the sticky stars I had on the ceiling of the room I painted pink, but now I am laying a floor above that, my ceiling has no glow-in-the-dark stars, and my future is uncertain. 

I do, however, know I have made the little girl in me proud, and I live every day to make her smile. I hope the little girl below me smiles, too, and I hope she is strong in the face of uncertainty. I hope she knows she is beautiful, worthy, and so much more than her appearance. 

Growing into a woman is harsh, it's unexplainable, and awkward. She will face pain, heartbreak, and an unprecedented amount of unsolicited opinions. This society has been very successful in holding women down while also holding them to a higher standard. It is impossible to be a woman, but it is beautiful to be a girl. 

There is joy and love in girlhood: sistership, imagination, pigtails, and polka-dotted mismatched socks. There is beauty in womanhood as well, but the foundation for that is built as a little girl. 

I am looking at myself in my bedroom mirror, and I wonder if she is looking in hers as well. I am inspecting my adult acne, but I hope she is making silly faces like I used to, and I hope she does that forever. I hope she feels secure and loved enough to grow into a strong woman with a soft heart. I hope she is not hardened by growing pains and the ails of girlhood. I hope she remains kind to other women despite society pitting us against each other. I hope she speaks her mind and loves loudly. I hope she keeps singing and dancing, even when her neighbors can hear it through the walls.

 Gather strength, but keep the whimsy close. 

I have become a woman, but the little girl in me is never far. 

Strike out,

Delaney Holman, Writer
Chattanooga