Hannah, my best friend, and I used to put glitter glue on our eyelids and pretend we were older, better versions of ourselves. We’d sneak into my mum’s room and try on her dresses and shoes, stuff our undershirts with the The Sun old newspapers that my dad would buy and stack into a big pile ,and wiggle around in her shoes. Back then, we had seemed limitless: I could be the conservative doctor with pulled back hair and kitten heels and tomorrow, I could be pepeye, bright red lipstick smudged on quickly, sassy walk, just like a duck.
Then one day, we outgrew these games. We were 10, no longer babies, and we knew, we just knew that we were gradually becoming the women who we had pretended to be. By 15, we were almost women, now we didn’t smudge our make-up as badly as before, and on our eyelids now had real shine-shine, mine usually gold, her’s silver.
At 19, we were now both in university, the same one, we had not wanted to be separated, and now I was finally becoming the doctor, she the creative design major we had both always wanted to be. We were hopeful, with child-like exuberance for the future not yet explored, we moved, we became and then we left.
We would drift apart, but then at 25, we would meet again, Hannah heavily pregnant with swollen feet like yams and we would remember the games we had played, and cry because the future was much less bright than what we had imagined as children.