Fifteen: thoughts, words, a shadow of a poem
I am fifteen, and I am listening to Taylor Swift. I am worrying for my future, feeling sorry for my past. I am procrastinating my English project. I am having one of those nights, the kind where I feel detached and yet suffocatingly consumed. I feel myself being pulled in every direction, like my mind is struggling to determine which is the right way.I am fifteen, and I am listening to the plain-white-T’s. I am mourning the muggy mornings and the sunny evenings this song conducted. I am realizing those days are over, if not for good, for a damn long time.
I am fifteen, and I am listening to Lewis Watson. He is not a nostalgic figure, but his songs sound as much. I am realizing my facade is not as strong as I previously thought. I am accepting I am flawed. I am trying to better myself.
and this is a promise to my 15-year-old self, to be a better sister, better daughter.
growing up sounds silly and flat coming out of a teens mouth, I understand. but I am 5 years from age 20, no?
I talked with my mom tonight, before the clock struck 12. we talked about a topic normally untouched- family.
We talked about our old swing-set, the one with the broken slide and the red swing shaped like an airplane and that dumb ball you had to balance yourself on, the one I always hated. she talked about how she used to push me.
and too many hours later, I am missing her hands at the small of my back, always pushing.
I am wondering why she stopped.
we talked about my dad, before he got sick.
we remembered his broad shoulders, how whenever he shaved his beard I wouldn't recognize him and i’d cry. we remembered his hands- worker’s hands, hands of an electrician-
I asked her to change the subject after that.
so we landed on my brother. Papi, my mom still calls him.
(she still calls me Mama, too)
it was here I realized that I have always called my mother Mami, with an I, with a Latin tongue.
but I have never once called my father Papi or Papa.
It has always been Dad. Never daddy, either.
Just dad.
I am fifteen, but I am so much older than 15. I am not crying because I am growing up,
I am crying because because I don't remember the moments that got me here.
I grew up a long time ago. This?
This just feels like confirmation, like getting a certificate after graduating. I know I did all the work. This paper, this age-
it is all words and numbers and nothing significant.
I am fifteen, and I am listening to paramore. I am understanding that this is a long, burdensome process. I am learning that hope is something to hold onto, no matter how small.
I am realizing a spark is all we have sometimes.
and I am learning that this is mine.
1:30 AM
“fifteen”
