Back then I could count to 100 and feel satisfied. Could spell Mississippi with all the Ss. Could cross the orange kitchen tile and cross the world.
Back then I learned to drive and crashed neatly 7 times -- something almost predictable to the destruction. Back then I bought shades made of reeds and a white paper lamp.
Back then my outline was scrambled and fuzzy and I rarely held together well.
Back them my car was green, my love yellow.
Back then I wore wool sweaters. My car door froze, the key broke off in the lock.
Now I am in flip flops and call 80 degrees hot.
Now I have a small boy and a recent man, a cat shaved like a lion.
Now I try to hold fears in my mouth like objects and speak their names. Now I sit with an iced mocha and a brown paper-covered table.
Now I wait for something to clear -- for the sun to soften or clouds to settle or something like song to call me. Now I understand hardly anything after today.