The Moment Between

These three pieces trace the quiet passage from wonder, through weight, into the light that holds them both.

The Mind of a Child

The mind of a child

is a room where the lights flicker

because they’re powered by laughter,

not wires.

Thoughts arrive wearing costumes—

a spoon is a spaceship,

a shadow is definitely alive,

and the floor creaks

because it’s trying to talk.

A child’s mind leaks magic.

It spills out through pockets,

under fingernails,

into the quiet places

adults rush past.

They believe in monsters

without being embarrassed

and believe in safety

without proof.

The dark is curious,

not yet cruel.

Night is where stories stretch their legs.

Fear hasn’t learned

how to whisper yet—

it still announces itself

with a gasp and wide eyes.

A child does not hide from wonder

or pain.

They step straight into both

and ask them questions.

Their thoughts are untidy—

loops, scribbles, spirals—

but nothing is broken.

Nothing is being managed.

They have not learned

to shrink their joy

or explain their tears.

The world is loud.

The world is alive.

And they trust it

just enough

to keep playing.

The Mind of an Adult

The mind of an adult

is a locked room

with labels on every drawer

and one corner

they avoid looking at.

Thoughts line up politely now.

They wait their turn.

They wear reasonable shoes.

Imagination still exists—

but it has learned

to apologize

for taking up space.

The dark has changed its voice.

It learned subtlety.

It learned how to sound

like responsibility,

like realism,

like don’t get your hopes up.

Fear no longer jumps out—

it settles in.

It rearranges the furniture

and calls itself protection.

An adult’s mind

knows the cost of things.

It knows the price of honesty,

the danger of softness,

the weight of remembering.

Wonder survives,

but it hides behind productivity.

Joy is scheduled.

Grief is postponed.

Somewhere deep inside,

a small voice

still believes the floor might speak—

but it has learned

to pretend it didn’t hear.

And yet—

In quiet moments,

when no one is watching,

the mind loosens its grip.

A memory sneaks in barefoot.

A laugh escapes without permission.

A tear arrives

with no explanation.

And the adult remembers—

not how to be a child,

but how it felt

to belong to the world

before it demanded proof.

The Moment Between

The moment between

is not childhood

and not adulthood—

it is the pause

where both stop arguing.

It lives in the exhale

after the adult loosens their jaw

and the child peeks out

to see if it’s safe.

Here, wonder does not shout.

It hums.

Here, fear is allowed to sit down

without being fed the future.

The moment between

is where the child hands the adult

a crayon

and the adult hands the child

a lamp.

No one is asked to disappear.

Imagination learns boundaries

without losing its wings.

Logic learns tenderness

without losing its spine.

The dark is still dark—

but it no longer pretends

to be the whole story.

This is where memory softens,

where the body remembers

how to stay

instead of brace.

Healing does not announce itself here.

It arrives quietly,

like sitting on the floor

without needing a reason.

The moment between

is when play becomes prayer

and honesty becomes shelter.

It is where the child stops running,

the adult stops performing,

and something older than both

whispers:

You are allowed to be whole.

I vow to listen for the child, trust the adult, and live in the space that holds them both.

— Flower InBloom