Birthdays

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.