Seven years of turmoil
bubble up under the skin,
leaving us pockmarked and nostalgic.
My father remembers Sixteen like the sunshine.
My mother remembers that she never went to prom.
Should I be counting the seconds till twenty
or memorizing the texture of my lips
before they become cracked
and disappointed and undone?
Are these the glory days,
or are they meant to be forgotten
as I stand in line,
waiting for real life
to shake my hand
and deliver my sentence?