Cement. Who would have guessed that gravel and sand would have been the realization of my youth dying. As it dries, adheres to earth, it took my childhood. My handprints stamped into its substance, the tires from my first bicycle now molded with the zigzags of the rubber. I can still hear my father.
“Don’t go through the cones, it’s wet still!”.
I didn’t know what “it” was. Now I know. Now I know that by disturbing the cement, by marking my territory, I would be faced with a swallowing feeling of sorrow every time I walked by. I would have to be reminded that no longer am I small and frail who, when raising my arms, would be effortlessly lifted up. Instead, I am small and frail; raising my arms just to find myself being put down. I have been robbed by concrete.
But the birds still sing, and the water still runs. The world will not stop for anyone but itself.
It is now 8:00 pm and the pillows along my bed are perfectly contrived so no one can see me. This university often makes me want to align any sort of barrier along my body and face to be hidden. I am a saturnine taste to the tongue, an eye-sore with too much to say and little to give; not welcome in a place like this. My father keeps telling me “You’ve got this. Hang in there!”.
But I don’t have a smidge of anything.