Pamela Calhoun

To become an adult…

You stop skipping on the way there.

Passing by a green grassy hill, even if you notice it, you walk on without needing to roll down gleefully just one time before moving on.

You’ve forgotten what the cool green grass feels like between your toes.

No longer do you find joy in challenging the waves and seeing if you can outrun them.

Being up after dark doesn’t feel magical.

Years can pass by without enjoying a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich on plain old white bread.

You work, you get married, you have a child.

The child becomes a toddler.

One day he says; “Look Daddy, I can skip!” and you both skip on the way there.

When you pass by the green grassy hill, the two of you laugh hysterically as down it you roll.

You say; “Take your shoes off son, see how great the grass feels between your toes?”

At the beach you spend hours outrunning the waves.

Together you sit in wonder at how magical the night feels as you watch for shooting stars.

Alone one night, eating a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich, you remember the fun you had together, before he outgrew you and became an adult.

He gets a job, gets married, has a child.

The child becomes a toddler.

One day she says; “Look Grampa, I can skip!”