Vivre C’est Vieillir
I am seventeen, grasping desperately for the reins of my childhood.
I am listening to a CD I stole from my mother’s library, a collection of Fleetwood Mac’s greatest hits. I am the first person to play this CD since my mom was young. My heart is warm and full of yellow.
Mom cooks dinner in the kitchen and sings along to “Say you love me”
Christine McVie’s coos leak through the cracks in my slanted mustard door frame. Like a sunflower, paint peels, the shavings pointed towards hope.
My heart is warm and full of yellow.
A swirl of scent and song swirls around my head while I lay on my floor holding the CD’s jewel case. My eyes scan, searching for ‘Never Going Back Again’ on the track listing. Its absence brings forth a sigh.