I want to be innocent again. I want the sunlight to filter through the pink gauze curtains onto my little dishwater blond head where I sit on the gray and rose-flowered carpet, hunkered over my Barbie and her wardrobe.
I want to be seven years old again. I remember threading the needle, holding it up to the light, trying to knot the end and then sewing turquoise blue crooked stitches-- because that's what looked good to me on white satin.
I want to love Barbie again because she was me. I remember making Barbie her sundress in dotted peach swiss, her underpanties and bra cut down from my mother's castoff satin slip, and then a little cloth handbag to match. It had a piece of real jewelry chain for its handle.
I want to be sweet on boys again. After Barbie slipped on her high-heeled pink sandals and her sun hat was on her head, she always walked to her dune buggie and got in beside Ken. Both of them had tans and smiles, and this meant they were very happy, and very sweet on each other.
I want to swim in a blue plastic pool again. When I'm six, when I'm five, and then when I'm seven. I want to dive to the bottom and retrieve Barbie's bikini top, the pink, orange and yellow striped one that matched her pink hotpants. Then, I'll look up through the blue water to the wavy sun, and chase the sunbeams with the bubbles I blow up to them.
I want to push my feet off on the bottom of the pool and burst through the surface to splash everywhere and see Barbie is safely floating on her blow-up swim chair and Ken is still in his lifeguard chair.
I see them now, waving at each other, a cool breeze ruffling the water, their smiles and tans frozen in another time. Where did they go?
I think they live in another state now. They are older, with grandchildren and varicose veins. In spite of needing heart pills and tummy-tamers, they are still in love, Malibu Style.