There’s an ache of eighteen. In the back of the car with your mother. In your childhood friend’s home. In hallways you’ve walked a thousand times. In the shortcut home from school. In the marks on the wall long outgrown. In your last assignment. In packing your life into boxes. In a space with people you grew up and apart with. This will not come again.
Life returns to fleeting moments that must be gripped tightly for fear of losing them; you return to the kitchen floor.
The edge of childhood. Please take my hand. Please don’t let go.