The Inch I Forgot To Measure

When did we stop marking our height on the doorframe?

Did we grow too old for it?

Too tall?

Or did we just forget?

I think the hardest part of growing up is forgetting,

not remembering the things that you used to live for.

I don’t remember the last time I played outside,

or felt the sting on my thighs from shimmying down a slide.

Somewhere between yesterday and today,

I grew up.

Maybe it hit when I was buying groceries,

trying to remember if I needed milk or eggs,

watching the price mount as the items scanned.

Maybe it was the first time I saw my dad cry,

or when my favorite song on the radio came to an end.

Maybe it was when the coffee no longer burned my throat,

when I got used to its bitterness,

or when I wrapped the blanket around myself so the boy in my bed couldn’t get to me.

I used to do that to hide from the monsters.

Now I forget what I was so afraid of.

Somewhere between yesterday and today I remembered how much I don’t remember.

I don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard I cried,

or cried so hard I laughed.

I don’t remember the last secret a friend shared with me at a sleepover,

the last promise I made and didn’t keep,

the last dream I thought was possible.

I used to believe in magic,

in the power of dreams and the promise of tomorrow.

Now I tally my steps,

measure my words,

and forget to look up at the sky.

When did I stop dreaming?

When did I stop growing?

The truth is: I don’t know.

I can’t remember the last time I felt invincible,

unbounded,

infinite.

I don’t even remember how tall I am now.

I suppose that’s what happens when you stop marking it down.