birthday

she is 17 – 18 years old now

(like always, she will have trouble remembering her new age and will say these words multiple times for the first few weeks. she has trouble remembering most things)

and she is young and scared and excited and loved.

she is singing along loudly to music in the shower, at home, all alone, thinking that hey, her brassy alto voice is pretty neato

she is ducking out of a room as quickly as possible after turning off the light because she knows she isn’t and has never been afraid of the dark but justincase there are, in fact, shadow monsters

she is driving in the jeep with her windows down, preferring the somewhat fierce summer wind to ac, anyway, her almost copper hair flying loose and free, hoping that maybe when she arrives, she’ll look disheveled in a lovely sort of way

she is trying to remember the left hand chords of a song she used to play all the time, occasionally pressing the wrong keys, wishing her piano teacher hadn’t moved away, remembering the aches in her back and hands, wondering if it would be worth it to learn again

she is getting unnecessarily anxious for new things, like making phone calls to the dentist and the university she’ll be going to, moving into an apartment in a different state with people she’s never met, but also simple, silly, everyday things, like correcting a restaurant employee about her order

she is a book remembered fondly, the author’s name escaping your memory

she is a child’s finger painting, joyful and messy and colorful, displayed proudly on the refrigerator

she is a smartphone camera roll filled with too many pictures of brothers and skyscapes because you just couldn’t bear to delete them

she is 18 years old and she is patient and kind and tolerant and good.

(or at the very least, she is trying her very best)