Clementine

I found a paper from grade school. I wrote the "N" in my name backwards, dotted my "I" three times. It asked me where I would be in 10, 20, 30 years. I thought I wrote nothing. It was completely blank, except for, in tiny print, two words at the very bottom, like I didn't want anyone to see. Hopefully happy. And I realized I'm not. And I realized I've learned learned learned--how to write in cursive, how to apply blush to the apples of my cheeks, how to add numbers in my head, how to make tea--but I have not lived, lived, lived. How to talk to someone when you're sad, how to smile without trying to, how to love and be loved. So I told myself, my grade school self--the good church girl missing her two front teeth with American dreams of raising pretty white horses--that I would live, live, live.

I would be, hopefully, happy.