The shape of yesterday

I used to race my shadow down the sidewalk,

thinking if I ran fast enough

I could outrun time.

Now I walk slower,

because somewhere along the way

time learned my name.

I still sit in the same car seat,

staring out the same window,

but the world doesn’t look like it used to.

The heroes don’t run beside me anymore.

The sky doesn’t whisper plans.

The miles don’t feel like magic.

They feel like distance.

I blink and my hands are bigger.

I blink and my laugh sounds different.

I blink and the people I love

are changing right in front of me—

and I don’t remember when it started.

Growing up is realizing

you won’t notice the last time

you’re carried to bed.

You won’t hear the door close

on the version of you that believed forever meant forever.

It slips away quietly,

while you’re busy becoming.

But sometimes—

just sometimes—

I catch a reflection in a window,

a laugh in a voice,

a messy bite of noodles,

and there it is.

Yesterday.

Still waving at me.

Still alive in the corners of who I am.

So I hold it gently.

Not to stay in it—

but to remember

that I was once small,

and the world was once endless,

and both versions of me

deserve to be loved.