We were both seventeen.
When I got my acceptance letter, you were working in the local dollar store and found out you were pregnant.
You didn't know who the father was and I didn't know which school to pick.
You turned eighteen and your belly grew outward. I've never seen a mother so young and so proud.
I began to pack and think about everything I was leaving. I've never felt so alone.
In September our ages met up again. You asked me to switch places with you half jokingly. I cringed at the idea.
I lost track of time when you gave birth. I sat in the back row at his baptism. His hair golden-blond, curling subtly around his large pale head. You said his name several times but I never cared to remember it.
Years have passed and I'm about to graduate.
Marc is going into kindergarten. "He's bright for a four year-old," you say "Just like his momma."
I'm lost in my future and we still don't know who the father is.
submitted at 10:26pm
29 May 2011
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