Sixteen
I sit on the sand with my sixteen year old self
in Australia’s Gold Coast,
where beaches flatline against the sky
and stretch towards infinity.
At sixteen I sat here with a boy
on my first trip overseas.
Not knowing any better,
it was enough to sit in silence.
For the joy of it.
I flew home to New Zealand
and we sent 40 page letters about nothing
for the joy of it, until it felt pointless,
as if it slowed down my ambition.
So I snapped to and became
an example of what sixteen should look like.
Later that year on a downhill slope,
where my friends rode for fun,
I panicked, and fell off my bike — head over handlebars.
Everyone knows you shouldn’t brake in gravel.
You just ride through it. Confidently.
I shattered my front tooth,
and over years it slowly turned grey
until I was afraid to smile.
Today, I sit on the sands of the same beach
before going to the dentist to fix it.
Today, after surgery, I’m going to smile confidently.
Just because.
