The park’s empty, save for the teenagers, who make themselves obvious to me–
in groups of three, on trend, holding hands and smoking weed,
on their phones and in relationships, running fast and careful not to spill their bubble tea or drop their ice cream,
thinking out loud about the homework they have left to do, with smudged eyeliner and winged eyeliner and Doc Marten boots and high-top Vans and knee-high socks,
with his hand in her back pocket and her hand clutching a vintage tote, hiding insecurities behind curtain bangs and big shirts, and braces behind exclusively closed-mouth smiles,
on skateboards and bicycles with helmets and without them, wearing headphones, daydreaming at the sky,
picnicking in the grass under one particular tree and talking about boys and talking about what’s next and talking about tonight and the other day and next week and this summer and who said what in calculus.
Do I stick out like a sore thumb? In this park with only teens?
I wind my way through it, indistinct and familiar among them until I feel a kick from deep within that reminds me I don’t belong.
Somehow, I feel I’ve become mother to all these teens: immaculate and miraculous and old.
Suddenly, I itch to tell them my secrets and mistakes – that it’ll be okay and to enjoy this. I want to say empty words like resilience and youth and if only I knew.
I want to show them pictures from ten years ago and explain exactly who I wasn’t – to ask if they think we would have been friends.
But then, I see a quarter on my path and in the way. A careless casualty of some teen’s open pocket, I presume.
It’s glinting at me, mocking my age with its value.
I smile back, collect myself like loose change and take those taunts in stride.
After all, I’m passing through this teenaged park a quarter, feigning vague wisdom and the severity of motherhood –
despite knowing I’m still quite young,
despite knowing that actually,
I know nothing at all.