Counting to 17

When I turned 17, it was synonymous with the beginning of the end. 

It felt like landing in the jaws of a 

hungry, 

hungry wolf 

that would maul me to pieces. 

I am not one who fears many things, but the mundane is one. 

What if adulthood consists solely of sleep and work; dullness, 

uninterrupted silence, with nothing to call my own save for a lonely apartment? 

The fear nags at me

until it's all I am.

We become well acquainted.

I cradle it late into the night; sleep and her evasiveness never find us.

During the night before my 17th birthday, hope visits me.

The first words out of her mouth are a  lecture,

of which she makes me privy to a simple fact: 

“Courage is carrying on despite being scared.”

 During the day of my 17th birthday, my mom asks me,

“What did you wish for?”

I tease her, “I can’t tell you or else it won’t count!”

But, in my heart, I wished for courage.