I am eight. I’m running through the yard, my feet kicking Florida sand up behind me. I dart through the gardenia bushes, the smell surrounding me. I take it in. I’m not me; I’m channeling my inner Native American. Pocahontas, if you will. I run barefoot over sticks and leaves and rocks, through the afternoon sunshine. I hide behind the trees, singing. I pretend I am in another land, someone else.

I am twelve. I sit in front of the television, watching endlessly. I talk back to my parents. I roll my eyes and wear makeup. I look at boys, and I gossip about girls. I walk by the gardenia bushes, forgetting their beautiful smell. I ignore the trees, calling for me. I want to grow up.

I am sixteen. I write poetry. I lose faith in God; I gain my faith back. I long for the future. I don’t walk by the gardenia bushes because they don’t seem to grow anymore. I’ve forgotten the voice of the trees. Granny is dead. Pawpaw dies. I feel like I face the day alone. I wish the future would come.

I am twenty. I work full-time. I study when the time is free. I wake up in my own house. There are no gardenia bushes outside and no time to listen to the trees. The Florida sand is long gone, and so is the house that I grew up around. We’re all in the future–the future we wished would come quickly.

I wish I were eight.

[part of a look at the past]