When I was 17

I was going to write everyday; be a poet; leave my little town and never look back; fall in love again and again because the beginning is always the best; read all of the books; learn French and live in Paris; never stop being friends with my girl E.

Two decades later:

I have started to write again but seldom is it poetry; haven’t been home in years; fall in love with my children all over again each morning; read despite the need for sleep; barely remember my college French and have spent only three days in Paris (so far). And E is “friend” in cyberspace — the opposite of what we once were.

4 thoughts on “When I was 17

  1. it doesn’t look like what we planned. it definitely doesn’t FEEL like what i expected it to. being an adult is not at all what i thought it would be.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. A,
    There’s a poem for that (written before kids and mortgage, but still rings true many days.)
    Love always,

    The place I am is here,
    Cannot be otherwise.
    All the steps
    I’ve ever taken
    have led to this.

    No use resenting my feet,
    No use resenting geography.

    So if this is the place to be,
    The place I am being now,
    What shall I make of it?
    Historically, people build
    Wherever they wind up:
    Yurts in Siberia, towers in Babel.
    So what is waiting to arise,
    Arrive at my fingertips,
    Grow from the earth toward the sky?

    Everywhere I go, the sky goes too,
    Just waiting for me to look up.

    The dirt of traveling sinks into skin,
    Over years, and so I am built,
    Of earth, and into the sky.

    “Where are we now?”
    The little me asks
    From the backseat,
    “And when will we ever arrive?”
    It is a long story, this long drive,
    And we are piled into the car,
    From beginning to end,
    And maybe for sequels,
    Who knows?

    I hope to always say,
    “We’re here. We’ve arrived.”

    I hope to know truth when I hear it.

    Liked by 1 person

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