The smell of summer hangs above the air, the humidity leaving tendrils of sticky warmth through the hallways. Teachers leave windows open, with a cool breeze ruffling the papers of notebooks. The bell rings, and I’m eight, skipping down roads till I enter the garage, pulling out bikes and scooters to play. My neighbor runs across the street, ready for another adventure, with hands full of rainbow loom bands and a basket of chalk. My wrists are full of rubber bracelets, my hands are a dusting rainbow. The driveway is full of tire streaks and hopscotch lines. Mom’s bowls are stuffed with leaves and flowers from my leftover potion concoctions. The moon slowly rises, and the only thoughts lingering in my mind are ones of sleep and dreams.

Sun filters through my curtains and I can faintly hear the familiar call of a bird that I don’t know the name of. A woodpecker is drilling into a tree adorned with dazzling foliage of orange, and birds are chirping wildly, soaring above the house. My small, nine-year-old hands clasp the ropes of the swing, the stiff strands digging into my palms. I try to reach out to catch the falling leaves, with dreams of the future. With every pump of my legs, I wish I was older, an age where adults would comment on how lovely I’ve grown and how mature I’ve become. I despised it when people asked for my grade. Whenever adults came over, I hated revealing my measly single-digit grade. In my heart I was always looking to the future, excited to finally say, “yeah I’m a junior; it’s no biggie.”

I sneak into the car, my sister quietly snickering as she darts into the passenger seat. We had grabbed the keys, just looking to jam out to the radio together. I type out each letter till the song that has been stuck on loop in my head pops up onto the screen. Music always sounds better in the car. As the melody flows out of the speakers, I turn up the volume, dancing and singing the words loudly in the winter frosted garage. My sister giggles as I try to mimic how Mom drives from the times I have observed. My fingers grasp an imaginary wheel as I press my right foot for gas and my left for braking, all while impressively avoiding touching anything. I imagine being sixteen and the one behind the wheel for real. I wish I could skip the years between twelve and sixteen and be old enough already. Being a kid is overrated. Just when the song is changing, I hear a faint holler. A shadow storms up to the window, and my sister and I freeze as we stare into Mom’s angry eyes. She had been frantically searching the house for us, surprised to find us in the car of all places.

I pour a tall glass of chocolate milk, spilling when a sneeze interrupts my careful position. Flowers are gracefully blooming as I wipe my snotty nose, looking scornfully at my parents drinking coffee. Fourteen is too young, they say, tired of my begging. I sigh impatiently, looking longingly at the “adult refreshment” in comparison to my silly drink. I could not wait for my birthday.

I grab my keys, place my sunken bag into the seat next to me, and flip my sunglasses down from the top of my head. First order of business is always the music, and I twist the volume dial up as I put on my favorite songs. I roll the windows down, hair whipping across my face, ruining my freshly applied lip gloss. The tinkle of ice cubes hits against the glass as I take in a long sip of the bitter drink. Every day sits like a ticking bomb, waiting till the day of college acceptances before exploding. College is all people talk about. My right foot presses sharply on the brake as the light changes to red, my left foot useless beside it. The hot summer shine casts long shadows across the road as the light changes to green. I love being seventeen. I now proudly boast of my grade, laughing at the sympathetic looks of adults when they hear of my packed schedule. Junior year is the big year, they all say. The Mourning Dove cries the familiar owl-call of my childhood, and I take a quick glance at my wrists to readjust my silver bracelets. 

I am finally the age I have always wanted to be, yet even now, I cannot help but wish I was back to being eight or that I could already be twenty. I love drinking chocolate milk, swinging at the playground, and only thinking in the moment. But that was the life of an eight-year-old. I would love to know who I will marry, what job I will have, and if I will be okay in the future. But that is the life of an unknown Kailyn. I’m curious to see what life I will lead, who my kids will be, and where I will have traveled. But I think in reality, I want to keep that a surprise, for I am still blossoming.