At Seventeen

I heard the song At Seventeen for the first time in years recently. Remember that one? These lines took me back:

It was long ago and far away
the world was younger than today
when dreams were all they gave for free

I scrambled upstairs for "the box." I had put "the box" together right after 9/11 (the 9/11, not the most recent 9/11), as in, "what do I grab if I need to flee immediately?" And, in the box of a writer, here is what you will find--journals. A journal from when I was eight, with Snoopy on the cover and a broken lock. Journals from high school filled with longings that fought against the limitations of one-page-per-day. College journals where I wrote in a secret code that protected my most candid comments from the eyes of roommates. And, finally, those black and white composition books that followed me from apartment to apartment where I would ink in the white spaces on the cover while talking on the phone.

And in this box is a book of poems I wrote, mostly when I was 17, it seems (I signed and dated everything, as if I knew one day I'd wonder). And if memory serves me right, I wrote them mostly in that Social Studies class that never went anywhere very fast. And so I am fortunate enough to get a grown-up glimpse back at the girl I was when I had not yet become who I am today.

And, as coincidence should have it, I noticed the dandelions are blooming again in my yard, and I took this picture. And I remembered the simple little poem I had written. At seventeen.

The Dandelion

Do not rely on others
To reassure you
That you are good.

Instead, be like the dandelion,
Who knows in his own heart
That he is a beautiful flower,
Just misunderstood.

I told my daughter recently that I think I have finally figured out a secret about aging. That we are all really young, just older (however paradoxical that sounds). That that person who we were at seventeen is still with us, always.

Who were you at seventeen? How (or when) do you still see glimpses of that person now? For me, it's the dandelions. They blow my cover every time.

"Make a wish, Mommy, make a wish!" my younger one calls, grabbing the white seedhead and handing it to me.

And I just smile.

At Seventeen