I'm only eighteen.
Just a baby really.
Only three short years past
Halfway to thirty.
Still somehow it seems to me
I must be nearly eighty-three
Like my dear friend Bernadine.
I'm beginning to really appreciate
The way neither of us feels truly ready
To deal with reality.
You see,
I'm dreading university
And she keeps asking me
To call her mama.
"She'll be worried about me"
She pleads.
Her eyes are full of tears
But I can't dispel her fears
No matter how unreal they might be.
Her mama's been gone for years
But she'd probably
Call me a liar if I told her
So I just hold her hand.
She believes she's only eighteen.
Just a baby really.
Only three short years past
Halfway to thirty.
But time goes so fast...