Eighteen

I am eighteen and I

still sit at the kids table,

surrounded by my cousins

(nine, twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty)

and my sisters

(thirteen, sixteen, eighteen)

And it seems I will stay here forever. 

I suppose,

though, 

that the kids table is where I'm meant to be

for I am still a kid,

still growing, 

still changing,

still don't quite know what

I'm doing with the rest of my life I'm

still stuck in this endless loop of 

just-finished-high-school

not-yet-started-college

confusion that not even parents or 

teachers or siblings or classmates can end,

I will always be at the kids table,

but at what point do we no longer count as kids?

I can still cry at

the drop of a hat, at 

the dog dying in the movie, at 

Iron Man making his final stand, I

still binge-watch Kim Possible and

animated Disney movies,

I still collect plushies and get homesick and layer my blankets so thick you can barely tell that I'm hiding under all that fluff, 

and apparently, for all intents and purposes,

this human body,

this walking meat sack with too many feelings,

is no longer a child.

I was no longer a child for high school,

when I stayed up past midnight for the first time doing homework
(though it wasn't the last, and it won't be)

when I broke down and cried over a project due by 8 am that I had hardly started,

when I yearned for days of anxious-less-ness and freedom, 

free time, satisfaction that did not come purely from hitting send,

but, dear fifteen year old me struggling to understand Algebra, 

when everyone else seemed to whizz through the class,

you passed, lovely, and I'm proud of you. You

passed your next four years with 

flying colors, you will

be more accomplished than you

can ever imagine. 

Take a deep breath.

Hit send.

Go to sleep.

Enjoy your stay at the kids table.

Hopefully, it will last forever.