Life after Youth

by Amy Phillips

Once, toes gripped bark

fingers clung to branches,

the two wheels of my bike

rode hard over gravel

& guided me unharmed

past the rose bushes.

Once, day-old scabs

were opened & fresh blood

mingled with the blood

of a classmate, creating

a bond that lasted

all through recess.

Once, we smoked joints

at Union Dam with our

legs hanging over the side

of the tower, standing erect

50 feet out of the water until

we found the nerve to jump.

Once, I stood facing the earth

from 12 thousand feet above

the dirt before I dove into

free fall, the wind so strong

breathing became impossible

just before the parachute release.

Now, life is routine

& moves at breakneck slows,

the sound of the alarm

brings the reality of long days

of work & pay is sustenance

for electric bills.

Now, a car is an expense

rather than a thrilling new

freedom, & impractical road

trips on a whim are instead

planned & timed flawlessly

in order to fit a weekend.

Now, parents & grandparents

are constant reminders of our

own mortality, & steady

decline into cautious living

leaves little space for imaginative

displays of spontaneity.

Now, the thrills of childhood

have slowed to a crawl

the fully developed person

awakens from a thick fog

& becomes acquainted

with the world beyond her nose.