The Older Boys

 

I had always felt younger

than all the other boys.

My pretty pink Strawberry Shortcake bicycle, and

long dirty blonde hair.

We were all younger than kindergarteners, yet they seemed as bold as high schoolers.

 

At least that’s what I thought of them,

the older boys.

 

They taught me to make paint out of dirt and water,

which ended up on the outside walls of many complexes, leaving our parents with lies

and expenses.

They taught me that no matter what the landlord says, it is always ok to

climb trees at your own desire.

Always ok to do what you want.

 

That’s what they said,

the older boys.

 

They taught me how to ride my bike. They taught me how to perfectly

slide along the gravel

and skid until your tread wears out.

 

They taught me,

the older boys.

 

They taught me that the bumpy feeling I got

was one not to be afraid of, but to be taken as an accomplishment

as I finally rode down the last few stairs.

They taught me that being a boy is the definition of cool.

So I did what they did, and I was as cool

as a kid could possibly be.

They taught me this,

the older boys.

 

Until one day,

when kindergarten was approaching fast, and long, sizzling summer days spent in treetops

were soon coming to an end.

The first day of school.

I looked everywhere for them,

the older boys,

who had taught me to be who I am.

 

They were not there,

and I did not realize until my mind could wrap itself around the fact that they,

the older boys,

were not in my kindergarten class

for one reason.

 

Because I was older.