On Turning Twenty-Five
The whole idea of it makes me feel
like my odometer is running over.
something worse than a ticking clock,
sand pouring through glass,
a sea of X’s on a calendar.
You tell me these are the best years,
ambition to climb, boundless energy to run, the passion to pursue.
but that is because you have forgotten
the rejection that comes with inexperience,
the collisions with walls and red tape.
But I can sit at my desk and remember each year,
the way my skin felt at ten,
holding a strangers hand at thirteen,
the steering wheel pressed agains palms at sixteen,
touching my grandmothers face at twenty.
This is where it all counts, I say to myself
Where moms’ morals and dads’ shortcuts come into play.
It’s time to take pride in these green eyes
and these small hands.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
each year was a chapter
that ended fully and abruptly.
Now when I take pen to paper
I keep working on the prologue.