These Are the Times

I just want to be happy.

Walking down suburbia or

some country lane, listening

to Lukas Graham straight from our phones

doing silly jibes, drinking lemonade from plastic

cups, plotting a food run for later, like we did back

in college when we were the peak of the generation

in between the relentless days of sorting through

our childhood and wishing that things that had been different;

a friend for the hard times there, a parent for the hard times here.

A soft hand on the backs of our scars to the say that the pain of yesterday

is okay and that you are human in spite of all the strange men that paraded

through your house when you were six and that through all of that you

learned to say you had some good days because you remembered the love and

refused to regret.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.