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22 and Feelin’ Blue

22 and Feelin’ Blue

22 came this year like the deflation
of a balloon, right before you tie it
at just the perfect size, but release

your grip just a moment too soon.

22 is knowing what drinks you like
to order at the bar, and exactly (or more so,
approximately) how much alcohol it takes
to get you buzzed.

Oh, to cover up the bitterness of sorrow
with the fizzy sweetness of root beer and amaretto.

22 came at the peak of August,
just after my father’s stroke
and a phone-call filled early birthday vacation –

Clearwater in July.

My mom’s voice, wavering, but clear,
“He said hey bud to your brother this time.”

22 feels like 2022,
fast approaching and decidedly
unwanted. I think the calendar makers forgot
about 2020 and twenty twenty-one.

22 is the same as 21, but marked

by less applause and a Taylor Swift song
latching on that no 2000s girl
can shake off (cue wink and nod).

My generation is taking over Facebook, splattering
our feeds with clever captions and perfected photos.

22 was enthralled by the glamour
of the “Roarin’ 20s,” only to remember
those years not only came with the flappers,
but also, the Blues.

Recommended2 Simily SnapsPublished in Coming of Age, Culture and Current Events, Humor, Memoir, Personal Narrative, Poetry

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