The Birds Will Think You’re Quite A Legend
Second to Last Day of High School
Was there ever a time when being young did not mean growing up ? Were we ever young, simply to be young ? Or perhaps the time of youth moved too fast to grasp, for as the thought crosses my mind, I’ll admit the days I spent walking down the driveway in jelly shoes were the most fleeting.
The winters were coldest then—my frustration the more memorable as the minutes compiled due to the unnecessary, but completely comprehensible wearing difficulties of red snow pants and hot pink boots. The summers were quiet then, following killdeer and braiding wreaths of dandelion flowers. And the petals were the color of gold, not unlike a crown, and as a crown the wreath would be adorned atop my head and fall apart the moment it brushed my hair—there was frustration in this, too, but none similar to the likes of which today carry.
With simple games came simple injuries—steaming pavement burns from a trip in running, gravel scrapes from the earliest bike lessons—but each wound healed long ago. The scars they left are still present, one on my knee, another on my elbow, etc, but their presence grows lighter with each day passing and every ray of sunlight that blesses my skin with the color of warmth.
