Once I dropped a penny in a fountain and wished to be a teenager.
I was only five; I thought it'd come true.
I insisted to my parents that my wish had been granted,
pretended to act moody like I heard teenagers were,
recited a book I knew by heart as if I could read it
as if I was magically in a higher grade level
all because of a penny glistening underneath crystal-clear water.
When my mother stared at me, sorrow sunken deep into the chocolate-brown of her eyes,
and told me the truth
that I wasn't a teen
that I wouldn't be for a long time
I cried.
I guess I didn't think about
how the wish would be granted
eventually
only eight years late.

Once, when I was nine years old,
as my feet grazed over subway platforms one muggy summer day,
I tried to count the days until I turned thirteen.
But the numbers became too large, the equations too complicated
for me to solve
without a calculator or pen and paper.
I knew it would be a while until the big day came,
and I guess I almost doubted
it would happen,
thought it would always remain a faraway dream
lurking in the corners of my mind.
Would January 24th, 2023 ever come?
I hardly imagined the time when I'd be able to count the days
easily
when they'd be a simple addition equation away, kindergarten math.

Now,
if I dropped a penny in a fountain and wished to be a teenager
the wish would be granted
the second my eyes met the light of day.
Now,
if I counted the days until I turned thirteen,
it'd be simple as anything
no calculator needed.
Three letters, one syllable.
One
one
one...
in one day, I will be thirteen.