Seven Going On Twenty-Five

Photo by Natasha Kalsi

By Natasha Kalsi

No one tells you at eighteen 

that by the time you’re twenty-five, 

you’ll want nothing more than 

to be seven years old again. 

I remember always playing badminton

in my backyard.

The air thick with the lush smell of 

freshly cut grass.

The icecream truck down the road was

the soundtrack of my childhood

but I couldn’t tell you how it goes 

if you asked me now.  

I traded dirt underneath of fingernails 

for anxiety induced nail biting. 

Stacks of construction paper 

for piles of bills.

Collecting rocks at the lake for

collecting memories at the back of my mind

to come back to and wonder why 

I wanted to grow up so fast. 

I didn’t have that one defining moment 

where you become an adult. 

Like driving at sixteen or drinking a beer at nineteen. 

And to be quite frank, I don’t believe those moments exist. 

No one tells you that adulthood 

creeps up on you in the form of

dry skin on your face,

dishes that haven’t been done in days,

and that ever-present need to 

relive memories from your childhood. 

I may only be twenty-five

but I look eighteen 

and my heart is seven years old.

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