Sometimes I like to remember what life was like four hundred and seventeen days ago.
Like is the wrong word. It's more of a habit.
Sometimes I wish I was there four hundred and seventeen days ago.
I could tap myself on the shoulder with my shaking hands
Maybe give myself a hug.
Tell myself the secret through a smile:
Life's a bitch, but you're not alone.
But I can't even remember if I was happy four hundred and seventeen days ago.
I like imagining that I was.
Because I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.*
*Saturday At The Canal by Gary Soto
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