You were five, and your mother’s hugs smelled like vanilla wafers.
You were six, and you were absolutely sure those were reindeer hooves you heard on the roof.
You were seven, and you thought there really could be a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
You were eight, and lightning bugs on a July night were fascinating.
You were nine, and so what if you still liked to sleep with that raggedy monkey you’d had since you were two?
You were ten and camped out with your cousins by the fish pond. The frogs sang all night.
You were eleven, and a trip to the library was almost as good as a blizzard from Dairy Queen.
You were twelve, and the middle school had a Sadie Hawkins dance. Why was it so hard for a girl to ask a boy?
You were thirteen, and had a best friend who thought you were cooler than cool.
You were fourteen, and acne stunk the big one.
You were fifteen, and that first kiss felt like fourth of July, Christmas Eve and your birthday all rolled into one.
You were sixteen, it was Friday night, and your first car date. Your date at the front door looked so good you could barely speak. It was ten-thirty before you held hands across the front seat, but it was worth every moment of the wait.
You were seventeen and taking the SAT. It felt monumental, as if your future hinged on how well you did.
You were eighteen, the middle of June, graduation day. Joy, sadness, wonder. Cap in the air. Nothing would ever be the same.
Remember. . .
Tidbits and Nuggets: The Obvious and the Not So Much 