Looking up

Your father’s old coat is too big on you, sleeves falling past your fingers. He looks at you and puts his hands on your shoulders as you stare down at the trailing sleeves. You don’t hear what he says.

Your mother’s old vest is too small on you, buttons dangling uselessly on the cloth. She looks at you with eyes too sharp and opens her mouth as you fiddle with the hem, and don’t hear a word of what she says.

Your old shoes are too big on you, the soles dragging with every step you take. They clump along clumsily and you watch as the paint sloughs off with each step, flakes of it falling in your wake.

Your friend’s hat is too big on you, the rim flopping over your eyes like wilting leaves in the fall. They smile at you, and pat you on your back. You look down and do not hear what they say.

There is a yellow stick beside you. One end is buried deep underground, far beyond your sight. The other end stands tall, shooting towards the sky above. There is a line somewhere near that end, bright green, an inch, a meter, a million small grooves carved evenly into the stick, above you. You stand, both feet on the ground, and look up

and up

and up

and up.

(Will you ever measure up?)