Summer has me daydreaming about my childhood; lightening bugs that glow and sparklers that excite and amusement parks that feature crazy rides and log flumes and firecracker popsicles that drip down my mouth in the messiest of fashions.
Blame it on the lies that killed us. Blame it on the truth that ran us down.
Moving away from what was home for four years is jarring. A dynamic experience ends, because life says it’s time to move on. To graduate. Onto the ‘real world’ — emerging adulthood.
I remember the personal conversations. Our parallel lives. Those who were responsible for the empty spaces in our hearts.
How are you? And what do I say? I’m good. I’m fine. And while that may be the case, in that specific moment, there’s so much more behind my lips.
I tend to romanticize beginnings. Beginnings are magic. They’re comprised of sentimentality and purpose and perfect timing.
I stare at my reflection; at a girl who, sometimes, doubts her potential. I’m sure I know the song.
Maybe if I appear bright, the sky will follow suit. All I want to do is look like April.
He had an artist’s temperament, she said. A creative mind.
Teenage girls were scattered on the carpet in sleeping bags. Whispering. Story-telling when the lights went out. Breakfast in the morning featured Cinnabons and sleepy eyes. Crust in the corners. Naps when we got home.