Sweet Sixteen

That summer is burned

into my memory

like candles

on my “Sweet Sixteen”

birthday cake.

I learned to drive

and how my breath

would sometimes

stick in my throat

without warning.

I spent those long days

in a haze

of panic and baked goods.

I started sleeping with the TV on.

Something felt untied somewhere

and I had the hunch

that it was me.

There were cookouts

a vacation

and lithe, tan bodies at the pool,

but then the world would slow

like someone had pressed a button

and I swear I could see

my fingers blur

before my very eyes.

The cicadas would moan

in a long, quavering drone…

and I would gasp.

Please. Please. Please.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

Hold it together. You can’t let

a hydrangea candle

put you

over

the

edge.

You’re a big girl.

Sweet Sixteen.

Enjoy the best year of your life.