When I was sixteen, I remember feeling nostalgic for things I hadn’t yet lost. Pure, raw adolescence. The hot summer nights at the end of August that I would spend celebrating my birthday by swimming in pools while it was raining and blasting our favorite songs while parents were still in the house, watching my hand follow the wind out the car window with my older friend driving because we wanted to go for a joyride down D.C. streets, experiencing things for the first time because I could. When I would look at myself in the mirror all I could see was a fleeting memory—knowing that I would be someone else one day. I’m glad I didn’t take it for granted, but I wish I could’ve enjoyed it without thinking about it leaving.
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