We sat in the basement, my cousin and I,
The prescient phrase, “one more year” exultant on our lips.
We savored the imminence.
One more year until he would have his driver’s license.
What a long time coming that had been, and how far off it had once appeared in the future.
And how far off it is now in the rearview.
Adults drove cars. And we were almost adults.
But all I see any more are children.
In the checkout line there is a tear-off calendar next to the register.
It says, “Born after this date? No Tobacco.”
But I cannot stop looking at the date. 1996?
That’s five years younger than my baby brother.
Those are children.
Can these children really buy cigarettes?
They used to be preschoolers; drooly-mouthed and training wheels.
They’re just kids.
It’s children who are drunk driving.
Did they believe that this moment would come so quickly?
Did they think it would never come?
Will they, like me, find themselves wondering what has happened to all the children?
Do they know they are not children anymore?
