by Michaela Tashjian
I pulled my cardigan closer around myself to shield out the cold that came sweeping through me. Standing just out of reach was my husband, indicating each part of the playground and recounting to me all the games he played with the other school kids when he was little. I looked at the swing sets and monkey bars and balancing beams until my eyes welled up with all the empty feelings I’d forgotten were mine. Where was my childhood, my school friends, my memories of changing in sync with those around me? The emptiness spilled over then, leaving behind streams of memories rolling down my skin. Growing up is such a sad thing to do on one’s own.
Michaela Tashjian is a writer from Schenectady, New York. She spends her time studying English, writing creatively, and building relationships with the people around her. To read some of Michaela's less depressing writing, visit her here.