people alway told me
that time moves faster
when you’re an adult
and you wish more than 
anything to stop it

when I was young
everything that
mattered to me
had an expiration

the Nintendo games
and VHS from
that rental store 
of dry air and wonder

fireflies in a mason jar
with the holes poked
in the lid 

the times my father 
came in from Ohio
Friday to Sunday
my exuberant and devestating
bookends
no one knew
I would stay awake
and watch him sleep
to make sure he didn’t 
disappear

or that single week
in a dead heated summer
when my mother 
would step off the plane
each single day
I felt die in my chest
weigh in my stomach
I’d keep her awake 
all night talking
because she said 
we were night owls
and I thought 
maybe if I was 
more like her
she’d take me home

now I’m here
at the edge of forty 
and time has elesticized 
seeing myself 
within my sons
if I had grown in a house
that was safe 

I feel the end
of every single bit of me
coming in this dark 
swelling wave 

the one I know
I’ve been waiting 
to ride out 
kick my feet
one last time
with no plan
of coming back