Letting Go

Summers used to be magical.

Late nights out,

playing in front yards and side streets,

waiting for my mom to call for us out the window.

We bought cheap iced tea and candy

and hid in the tall grasses and trees.

Life was infinite,

life made sense.

I was happy, I was loved,

I was free.

(We all were).

Years went by, and the magic faded.

I was the oldest,

the most terrified of growing up,

I tried dragging those feelings forward,

not realizing that forcing them

relieved them of their charm.

We kept getting older.

I took driver’s training,

but that was only a couple weeks of Summer,

it would be fine.

I still held that freedom tight in my grasp,

choking away its own meaning.

I got a job.

Late nights running under streetlights,

became preoccupied with cash registers and shelves.

There was a time when sleep mattered,

but it never mattered when.

I adopted a sense of infinite fatigue.

Half of my energy went to holding on.

Welcome to the rest of your life,

everybody said.

My parents.

My grandparents.

My friends.

I blocked it out,

determined to cling to the last piece of

that childhood innocence.

I was stressed.

I was pulling myself too thin.

And finally,

head on the ground,

after I’d long given up putting any strength toward standing.

I let go.