If only. If only they knew and could see and had felt it. The growing pains. A tumultuous and irrepressible growth accompanied by exact and excruciating pains. We had tried. Tried in every which-way and that-way and slant-way, even. Tried to make wonderful, ourselves. Having poked and prodded and plucked and painted and faked. A thousand smiles for a lifetime. Faked. We did try, those times. To make wonderful, ourselves. But they did not feel the growing pains rising in the abdomen like molten rock, threatening to burst the lies. They did not see the cracks and fissures of each false face threatening to break and expose. They did not know. They did not understand, that is. How to learn, how to cave, how to heal. They could not break away from their old habits and silly pretenses. The pains did not sway them; they could not become themselves. They had not known that, to make wonderful, they must first have wonder.