Fourteen

Do you remember what it was like to be 14? To feel every emotion like an ice pick to the brain? To know, absolutely know, that no one in the history of the human race had ever felt the feelings you are feeling right now? Sometimes I miss that. Passion is such an intangible; like a wisp of cologne that teases you for a second then floats away. Fourteen is such an amazing age: the emotional fragility balanced by the perceived physical invulnerability. I watch them now, skateboarding up and over my porch, and I think how brave they are. These boys who stare at the ground and blush burgundy when a 14-year old girl is nearby have no fear of flying through the air and trying to land on a moving skateboard.

I envy them. They have so many wonderful things ahead of them. I also pity them; life will sucker punch them, girls will break their hearts, and sometimes, they will fall off the skateboard. I wish I could tell them these things, prepare them, but I know they will not understand. They will think I am old and don’t remember what it was like to be fourteen. They will laugh at my warnings like they laugh at the “No Skateboarding” signs in parking lots. Only when they are older and see fourteen year olds skating will they remember what I said. When they are nursing a broken heart and they sometimes feel the pain from an old injury, only then will they understand my words and wish they had listened.

Then it will be too late, and they will be sad because of it. They will try to pass on the warnings I gave them, but it will be the same. Why is it, when we need the most help, we are the least willing to accept it?