The Art of Growing Up

The breeze tickles her androgyny as she stands on top of a mountain, overlooking the grass scattered with picnic blankets, occupied with people who have forgotten their ham sandwiches half way to their mouths as they look to the crazy girl with boy hair standing on top of the hill. Her clothes smell like crisp fall and deep smoke and they see her take a whiff of her sleeve. They watch, as her peculiarity increases. She surveys her kingdom before declaring disdain and running back down the slope, a drapey black sweater and large silver earrings following in her wake like a tail.

She clambers into a car, disappointed at the deceiving mountain. She's offended by it's minimality. However, she's quickly distracted by the lightness of her limbs. She rambles about metaphors to private school and the government as she lets a lonely finger float out the window. Stunned by it's freedom, the top half of her body follows. From the waist up she lolls out the window like some kind of rebellious flag.

She is a contradiction. Always striving to be more that she should be, she declares "Youth! It's youth I've found! It is wind and smoke and sugar!" Maybe in time she will coat herself in Crisco and pure cocoa powder, declare herself a confection for life to feast upon. There is an art to growing up.

"Look! Raise your arms! See how light you feel?"