Under the Bridge

The summer of 1999, you remember what you wore, and just the way you felt about life and where it could possibly take people. Your short hair was growing out in awkward lengths, and your family had decided that home was across the world after all, so it was best to go back there. You packed your bags and longed for back-to-school sales, for the way 100 degrees feels in the desert air when you step out of a freezing car. You packed your bags not knowing that the journey ahead would tear you limb for limb, would pull the roots from your veins and that you would never again be innocently glad.

The summer of 1999 is a long time ago, now. Your hair has grown out, grown dark, you smile better in pictures and try not to think of things that were.

You ask yourself sometimes
if you wish things had been different,
but the truth is

You don't know.