Last Friday night, I drove by the local high school and saw the floodlights on full, drenching the football field in harsh light. Windows open & my ponytail brushing against my cheek, I remembered back when I stood on the track with pompoms and hundreds of eyes on me. Where all that I held important smelled like cut grass and sweat and wild dreams, where I scanned the bleachers for the boy that gave me my first kiss and halftime tasted like bagels and Capri Sun. I can’t believe it’s been 15 years when it still feels like yesterday if I close my eyes long enough.
When I turned 30 this past summer, I laughed because I’m still that girl that daydreams & prefers to write in pencil & would rather spend Friday night at home. As a teenager, I thought 30 was beyond my reach with it’s minivans & paychecks & tucking little ones into bed at night but here I am, thick in the middle of life. Here I am, paying a mortgage & trying to hide motherhood’s curves under forgiving tops & wondering how in the world I got here so quickly.
My own mother says that when she closes her eyes, she still feels 16 even though her hands & the wrinkles around her smile tell the decades she’s lived since then. She can still feel the gears of her cherry red Mustang & my father on one knee with a diamond in Okinawa & when she looks in the mirror, she still sees the same girl from her Senior year book.
p.s. wrote this on October 1 & never pushed publish.
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