You worship your mom.
I can see it in your eyes, the
way you look up at her
as if you would do anything
to be with her.
You hold her hand
proudly in public, as if to say,
This is MY mom. When you
see your mother
cry
for the first time, your heart
breaks a little bit inside.
And when you no longer want
to hold her hand in public,
when you’re embarrassed to be seen
with her, or roll your eyes whenever she
says something, her heart
breaks, too.
To be young
is to love unconditionally.

You gaze in awe at the presents
beneath the tree. I know what
you’re thinking: Santa came!!
Your brother shrieks with glee.
Together you try to unwrap
the mystery that is Christmas.
You leave Santa letters, ask him questions.
And when he answers them your
stomach flutters with excitement.
Christmas really is the most
wonderful time of the year. Until--
Santa doesn’t exist. When the girl
with the flouncy pigtails announces
this, snobbishly, in second grade,
you argue with her even though
she laughs. But inside, you know.
You go home that night and cry in
your room because it feels like your childhood
was all a lie.
To be young
is to believe wholeheartedly.

When your mom drops you off
at a play date, it doesn’t matter what you wear
or who you’re dating or
if you’re pretty. I know you don’t
think about those things yet.
You don’t wonder if you’re ugly
or why guys don’t like you.
You just, play. Dress-up or
hide-and-seek or House or tag.
You don’t have a worry in the world.

What’s it like?
I remember,
faintly,
a dreamer’s dream.
If only I could
go back to being you.
I want what you have.
What I had.

Oh, to be young.