“So scared of growing old/ I’m only good at being young.”
-John Mayer

Candy bar wrappers and Mountain Dew cans
and packs of cigarettes we’d sneak down
a Carolina back road. The days of our youth.
You’re only seventeen once.

The radio played I remember running through
the wet grass, falling a step behind.
For us, it was a dirt road, twenty miles
per hour, skipping class because
consequences skipped us.

In the winter we made promises we knew
we’d break in the summer, just like the
hearts of shy girls we pushed into the pool.
You’re only eighteen once.

…

The first time death blew its cold, violent wind through my forest I was 12. I soaked it in visually as my grandmother’s already small body withered into an unrecognizable mess of blankets and tubes hooked to beeping machines in a cold room. Her mind was gone for months, if not years, and now the smallness of her would be swallowed up along with the faded memories of her days teaching, playing piano, and wearing pretend Sunday smiles for church as a pastor’s wife.

No moment in life is more sobering than when you know with full certainty you are…