I was teaching 9th grade English when a student proclaimed, “I went from blowing bubbles to blowing dicks!”
I glanced up; she flushed red.
I smiled softly, hoping to dispel shame, “creative. Part of a story, perhaps?”
“Yeah.” She laughed, “called Growing up Too Fast.”
I wanted to tell her, I, too, yearned to lose my innocence, regretted its loss, but kept losing it all the same. Until, I realized, I’d not only lost it, but its memory as well.
“Slow down,” I suggested.
“Sure,” she lied, as I’d lied to those who’d forgotten youth is meant to be lost.
I glanced up; she flushed red.
I smiled softly, hoping to dispel shame, “creative. Part of a story, perhaps?”
“Yeah.” She laughed, “called Growing up Too Fast.”
I wanted to tell her, I, too, yearned to lose my innocence, regretted its loss, but kept losing it all the same. Until, I realized, I’d not only lost it, but its memory as well.
“Slow down,” I suggested.
“Sure,” she lied, as I’d lied to those who’d forgotten youth is meant to be lost.
