Eighteen years.

Eighteen years is a full-grown person, graduated from high school and ready go off to college, spend a year tripping around Europe, or working some shitty job, wondering what's next. 


Eighteen years is a lifetime of memories: albums stuffed with photographs, closets full of childhood art projects, boxes of old stuff in the attic. 


Eighteen years is the leaping-off point, the moment you are ready and expected to go out and taste life, which generally means you will fuck up royally, live to tell the tale and hopefully be better for the experience.


Eighteen years is feeling like you've lived and not yet knowing that you haven't.


Eighteen years is eighteen long years ago, but is also right behind my eyelids. I swear if I'm quiet enough I can hear your voice. 


Eighteen years is the reminder that they will never know you and I will never know you beyond the ridiculously young man that you were.


Eighteen years is the age I was when you died and now I'm looking back, wondering how it's possible that I'm a thirty-six year old woman who hasn't seen her brother in eighteen years.


Eighteen years is not enough time to be used to the fact that you are gone.