The Promise of Turning 18




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.