I think there's nothing in this world that's sadder than having to grow up. To have to be mature. Because personally, I think it's all just for nothing. If something close to your heart is at stake, even if it's just something stupid like an old, dusty stuffed animal that you used to sleep with when you were still scared of the monster under your bed, why can't you just hold on?

Why can't you just and cry and cry until your parents let you keep it?

Why does it even matter that you're already fifteen?

"Because you have to grow out of these things, Wren. You need to learn how to let go of some stuff and be strong. It's just part of life." This is my mom's answer. And it's the saddest answer anyone can give but it's the only answer anyone will give.

"Can't I grow up without saying goodbye to neverland? When I turn eighteen or twenty or seventy-five, why do I have to lose the three year old inside of me in the process?"

My mom didn't have an answer for that, all she said was, "You just have to." and then she went on with flattening the dough for the pizza that we'll have for dinner.

I knew that she knew that I wasn't content with that answer but she didn't say anything else because she didn't have anything else to say.

It would have been nice to think that my mom was at that moment, thinking over what I had just said. But she wasn't, because she truly believed what she had said, that You just have to.

The very beginning of my little brother's slow journey to the mainland (from neverland) came one day in the form of a new washing machine, because that washing machine came in a box, a very big one at that.

And maybe it's because of the fact that they can fit inside it, but children have always been attracted to big boxes and my brother was no different.

Theo asked my mom for it right away, and she let him keep it. In the grand scheme of things, that decision made by my mom is either cruel or foolish.

Anyway, after mom's approval, Theo immediately took the box and carried it upstairs to his room. He drew on the inside of the box and put a pillow and blanket in it. He kept things in there, the usual random things that, if seen through the eyes of an adult is of no value, but through the eyes of a child, is greatly appreciated.

He slept in the box that first night, and then the second night.

And all the nights thereafter.

I don't think he even ever left that box except when he had to eat or when he had to go to the bathroom, because everytime I came looking for him, I'd always find him inside the box. He lived in that thing, basically. And although I could never understand the attatchment he had to––of all things––a box, I appreciated how fond he was of it in a way that my parents never could because they couldn't see what I had; a little boy who created his own secret world inside a box. He created this world seperate from ours, his own dimension free from reality and all the tragedy in ours and only he was allowed to go there. This is what I saw, but what my parents saw was a frightening image of a growing boy living in a box. And maybe they do have a point, but that doesn't make anything, any less sadder.

It didn't make me cringe any less when one day, I watched from the hall how my dad called my brother so they can have a "little talk".  My brother came out of his box and sat on his bed as dad knelt down in front of him.

And then, my dad went on to talk about some kind of metaphor about architecture (my dad had always been really bad at talks) and then something about a glass being half full or something and then he talked about the box and how it wasn't good for my brother.

His face scrunched up, fighting off tears when he finally got what dad meant and when he maybe realized that there was no getting out of it.

So he slowly stood up, and took his stuff out of the box one by one: toy paper swords, tape, a flashlight, popsicle sticks, boxes with holes shaped like stars.

And when he was done, he dismantled the box, folded it up and gave it to our mom with a blank expression.

"I'm so proud of you, Theo." Mom told him, smiling softly. He smiled back, but I knew he was trying his best not to cry.

I was so mad. If it were up to me, I would've let him cry. I would've let him keep it, actually. I would've let him keep it until he's thirty and ready to let it go.

Why not?

Who's to say thirty is too late? Why can't we just let things go in our own time, or never let go of them at all?!

It's tragic. But my grandmother said that I've always been really sentimental, never wanting to leave anything behind.

"It's okay honey," She told me one day, when I told her my feelings toward the subject. "We can't hold on to things forever, you know," she adds, laughing sweetly. "At some point in your life, you'll have to leave things where they are and keep going until they're so far behind that when you look back to catch a glimpse of them, all you see is a memory."

"Oh, and you'll cry maybe. But it's okay to cry. It's okay to be weak and fall apart. But, you'll have to be brave, too."