Jesse and Gillian, the daughter of my long
distance friend, both turned
eighteen in June. She's decided to study history,
political science at Harvard.
Her mom already misses her. Jesse graduated his special
program. I watched the video
my ex-girlfriend emailed a few times every morning
this week: Scenes of yoga poses,
his art exhibit at a local gallery, counselors, teachers
and students wishing him all the luck
in the world, saying how much they'll miss him as he sat
on a low slung hammock and a Cat
Stevens song played. He's spending the weekend at a Water
Park and he'll start regular high school
this September with two workers shadowing him down
hallways, through classrooms.
At eighteen, I was lost and living in my parents' basement,
fighting with my father, wondering
how many years I could kill in college before I was forced
to find a job I'd hate for the rest
of my life. I was happiest running full court and pitching
stickball at the schoolyard, listening
to Dylan, writing in spiral notebooks, trying to find the perfect
words to say to Julia Jordan, a place
in the world to belong. Like Jesse, like Gillian, like you. Day after
every damn lonely, blessed day.
Article © Tony Gloeggler. All rights reserved.
Published on 2016-09-26
Image(s) are public domain.