WHAT HAPPENS NEXT

Frozen construction ponds.

That’s where I first learned 

the meaning of “adventure”.

Where I’ve grown up 

there’s no cinematic cliff

overlooking the city, 

no scenic ocean pier.

We’d walk on those ponds

and pretend

we were ice skating.

And that brown ice somehow held,
and it cradled our youthful dreams,

built up like the mossy lean-tos

that we would construct 

in the woods 

behind our houses.

Simplicity tainted everything back then.

Do you remember?

Nothing could touch us,

or so we rightfully believed.

Early on I was

plagued only by things like

pre-algebra or provincial facebook posts.

Existing in an age

where screens have the ability to

stain fingertips;

everything is a few clicks away 

which is both

scary and comforting.

Years pass and the concern is no longer

summer swim team relays or
dystopian novels.

The plots of Harry Potter
books are brought up

mostly in reminiscent conversations;

cartoons are a circumstantial pass time

and no longer a Saturday morning event.  

There’s always something new:  

a different band,

a different haircut,

different friends.

Evolution is the norm.

There's this pressure to pick 

the best version of yourself

in the midst of a 

whirlwind of hormones and 

shaky hands and first concerts.

Firsts, there are plenty.

First kisses and first fights and

first times and first failures.

Some firsts
I couldn't help but wonder,
vaguely,
if I was still too young. 

I’ve struggled with everything,

from my the width of my thighs to

my subpar geometry grades.

What boys thought of me,

what my friends thought of me.

Growing pains came in the form of

scars concealed by a

friend’s ill-fitting sweatshirt sleeves;

the first time I had to hold

somebody while they fell apart.

Some nights I vividly remember

crying myself to sleep over

some triviality or another.

Tear stained pillows are a rite of passage,

I suppose.

The bulletin board in my room has seen

every change in the timeline,

every shift, every tilt.

A tangible representation of a

very

good life.

My bookshelf filled up, so did my walls.

And so did my heart, when I opened myself up

to people and things

I’d been afraid to let in.

I added, subtracted,

multiplied.

I found out my favorite foods

and favorite movies,

who I wanted to keep around,

and what it felt like to drive a car

alone

for the first time.

Good music fell into my hands

like a precious gem.

I found songs that

fit me like a glove,

I wielded them, my tiny secret weapons.

And it all happened so fast.

I'm trying to catch my breath.  

I have regrets because

I feel like they’re healthy—

the beers we shared on the beach because

we thought it would be cool,

the times I erupted, yelled too loudly,

the times I let people hurt me,

did too much for those who barely did

anything for me.

I'll learn from these things,

I swear.

I’m not impenetrable.

I am young

and for a tough kid,

my unshakable sentiment

contradicts me.

I am small and I accept that.

I have my daily doubts.

What if one of us dies before 

I get to hold your hand again?

Before we get to watch another movie 

on your too big couch

and gorge ourselves on Chinese food?

Before we get to drive 

with the windows down to nowhere

on a sun-drunken summer evening?

Loss is the axiom of growing up.

What you lose depends on you
and you alone.

It manifests somewhere between
your seventh birthday

and the time you’re twenty-two
and throwing your last

graduation cap into the air.

Because when you're seventeen
you're waiting for eighteen
and then you're twenty and
waiting for twenty-one
and then you're waiting
for something else
that you haven't even
put a name to yet. 

Suddenly that half-life of
half-hearted attempts 

at a full-fledged future

are not for naught.

The times when you used to
hide from thunderstorms

under the kitchen table

seem very far away

and yet.

There are more storms to come.

I know that. 

I’m still afraid,

and rightfully so.

For now I am here

and trying to be cool about it.

The people that are leaving,

the people that have already left

without either of us realizing it,

they all meant something to me.

Some days, I’ll admit,

I want to hurt somebody

because the distance seems to hurt

only me.

I’m trying to save

the best parts of myself

for a time when I feel more sure.

I’d rather you all be happy
and far away

than up close and miserable.

Me, I’ll spend one more thunderstorm

hiding under the kitchen table.

One more Saturday morning,

safe and lazy and in bed.

One more sunset

in the Cook-Out parking lot.

And then I’ll be ready.  

I’ve seen heaven once.

In a daydream or a piece of literature

or my lover’s eyes—I’m not sure.

But it was beautiful.

And it was quiet, but it was never lonely.

You could hear only the tomorrows

of a patient past-life

floating on candy-colored breezes,

whispered from hushed lips.

It was quiet.

It was never lonely.

One day I hope I’ll be found there.

When all is said and done.

When my own personal

“THE END” comes with

the most beautiful sky

anyone has ever seen.

In a place where mortal truths

are locked in people’s glass hearts

and preserved

forever.