Fourteen

Fourteen... just a number...right? I'm bull's eye, to life's shotgun. I try hiding behind tables and doors. But always end up shot in one way or the other. I try running away, from problems, and difficult times. But somehow reality catches up. Fourteen is more than a number, more than a problem. Some might take it as growing old. Others might take it as a step to a stairway, each being a year blocking their view. Im not sure as how I take it, not yet.

I remember when I was 6. I would swing on the monkey bars in the park, right after school. My knees, scraped from falling. My hands, so very small. My clothes dirty from the mud. And my homework all done. I would go get an ice cream in the store next door. Always the same flavour, my maid would complain. I would hold it in my hand and walk back home.

We would go up the stairs, since the elevator would take so long. My maid, yet huffing and puffing wouldn't complain about this, not anymore. I'd sit on the brown couch and read Amber Brown. Mommy would come out and read next to me. She used to read such big books, I wanted to read them too, but I was too small. Then we would sit down and paint. And later have dinner. Daddy, would read me a good night story, until I fell asleep.

But now, things are different. I come home and do my home work. It takes a long time, since I start getting sleepy. Then when I am supposed to be making my bag for the next day, I just stare out the window, and feel the breeze cooling my sun kissed skin. I watch the sun set and the moon rise. And enjoy it while I can.