an ode to what disappeared

when you’re older

my mom told me

you’ll start wearing makeup

and you’ll care more about your hair

the way it sticks up

the way it falls

to one side or the other

the way it shines

under the glow

of every colored light

you’ll want people to think you’re pretty

as well as just smart

and responsible

as well as just willing

and present

instead of just up and away

in your own head

you will have to come down

from the dream

when you’re older

you’ll have to blink twice

and see the world around you

for what it is

you’ll have to throw it all away

your toys and your trades

with the tools and the books

that no longer serve you

ones that

never really meant very much at all

if you think about it—

they only existed

to one day disappear

to go away

to be replaced with something better

something of value

something less embarrassing

and more showy

more radiant

easy to point and prod at

and talk about

and laugh about

a chest full of impressiveness

of relativity

of teachable moments

the things you care about now

will be gone

you will not remember them

as anything but shadows on the wall

fragments of your past

to one day reflect on

and smile vaguely about

shaking your head

waving a hand

I was so young then

denying it all

shedding it like snakeskin

nothing was real yet

nothing mattered

nothing was left in the sand

everything washed away by the waves

taken in by the tide

that icy cold water

covering the spaces and the places

in those gaps of memory

stretching far and wide

those unimportant times

before decisions were made

before taxes and bills, before death

before knowing, before mourning

before tips and taps and cash registers

before the shared complications

of this life

reared their ugly heads—

you must lose the innocence

shake it off

shove it behind and below

bury it in the dirt

you must forget it all

for it meant nothing

and was nothing

because nothing is what you were

and all you knew