My dad was stranded in China and then Australia for a few days.

No flights coming into the US.

My mom was ironing and crying and the television was far too loud.

He missed my 5th birthday,

and I refused to open presents until he was home.

At least he came home.

But I emptied more than my share of gas tanks.

I wanted to be good at everything, because when I was 17 I was.

I liked white shirts with collars and jeans with holes but I never liked my skin.

My best friends only spoke to me on Mondays,

I painted high school across their screens and in return they gave me words about next August.

I wrote a lot in my little black book. It sounds cliché but I worry about forgetting. I worry about someday-children being 18 and not knowing whether or not it's okay to love on Tuesdays and how necessary it is to have a friend willing to hate people by proxy. These sort of things are terribly important. 17 I was determined. 18 I was present. 19 (thus far) has a lot of homework and not a lot of empty minutes and she only likes running at night and casual eyes. She still doesn't understand the moon but 19 has a ride to Colorado so it'll be okay.  It'll be okay because I'm not 20.

It'll be okay because I have a little grey book now.