a poem, by Mia Rozen
Champagne glasses, bubbles of gold
Your father yelling out loud,
In front of the crowd his fondness for
you.
The sharp shrill of laughter, it’s wild in here!
Your cheeks are flushed and with this
Smudged, balm of pink matter on your soft juvenile skin
You take it all in.
The promise of being 18
Young, eternal, never to grow old.
Shiny and squeaky like a bright, new bike
The roads of the world coming together for you.
You are infinite, take it all in.
A forced smile is what you manage,
While your grandma consumed by,
This spring of youth that is you
Yells aloud, roars Oh! You’re so lucky you’re not old
Such an excessive celebration of you
Where are your banished four wheels?
The wheels of balance, hooping and wide-eyed
That carried you through your gallery of memories.
Long gone, they’ve been removed.
Your frail beauty is bound to be
Not a shiny but a dull,
Not a squeaky but a rusty,
Not a bright but a muted,
Not a new but an old
bike.
Because the promise of being 18, is truly just the oath of death.