Dear Readers,
By the time you read this column, I will not be the same boy I once was. I will have reached the magical ‘adult’ age of 18, and with that milestone, I will be able to do a host of new and exciting things. I can buy lottery tickets, sign forms, serve on a jury, get drafted (a.k.a. run away to Canada) and much more! Believe it or not, I will even get to go on “The Jerry Springer Show” to argue with Eugene over the rights to my garden gnome. But what about those things I can’t do anymore? Once I turn 18, there is no going back. No more play-dates, or Buzz Lightyear Velcro shoes. I can’t celebrate my new opportunities until I properly mourn…
The Death of My Childhood
Gone are the days when I’d eat like a pig,
stuffing my face with grilled cheese.
To find worms in the grass I’d endlessly dig,
or spend hours adventuring up towering trees.
Gone are the times when I’d wake up early,
To watch a silly Saturday morning cartoon.
My favorite drink ended with Temple and started with Shirley,
Sometimes I’d talk to the Man in the Moon.
Gone are the afternoons of making a mess,
or a fort, or a costume, or a doodle.
I’d always want a gold star on my test,
and when I was sick a bowl of chicken noodle.
Gone are the dreams of ninja astronaut,
or cowboy scientist on his cyborg steed.
I’d be the bravest knight in all of Camelot,
My was imagination was all I’d need.
Gone are the books about rockets and fossils,
and my vast collection of GI Joes.
Breakfast for dinner meant I would make waffles,
I always was getting syrup on my clothes.
Gone are the questions of what, where, why,
The sky is blue and old men have no hair.
I could scrape my knee and it was okay to cry,
Mommy would kiss boo-boos and bandage with care.
Now I’m a big kid, with big kid problems,
like stress and college and body odor that’s gross.
It’s nice that I’m tall enough to ride all the rides,
but being a kid is what I’ll miss most.
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