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 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 were a  lecture,

of which she made 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.

Posted in response to the challenge Spring: Writing Contest.



17 years old