I make the teens adjacent to me nervous. They wonder if I’m eavesdropping, spying for their mothers as we are a right-knit crew. Not in the sense that we spend time together beyond passing at drop-off and pick-up, but in the way that we are a tribe, a village, all of us watching out for the others’ children.
Me showing my age.
I am not eavesdropping, but if I were to hear them share danger or another cause for concern, I would speak up to the proper mama. The world can be dangerous. We all want the same thing: for our children to survive and be happy.
These girls with ripped jeans and multi-color hair, cell phones and acne—they are beautiful. They are confident despite their nervous glances my way. Four around a table, tiny coven convening. Little witches are everywhere in this town. They practice the magic of laughter and love.
I am not listening, but I feel the magic they give off. Youth is a pretty thing. I remember mine, always backwards in a chair, arms folded across the top, bubble gum in my mouth, smiling. Once I was earnest to fit in. With time I realized out was a better place for me.
Which of these young women is that version of me? Or are they all so full of confidence they fall together with the chips? They are glancing my way. I wonder what I look like to a teen. I have just begun to show my age. I am young yet, but my experience has frayed my edges, webbed the corners of my eyes. And there are the streaks of gray through my hair plus the children nearly their age following me like ducklings.
These girl take up so much space it is hard to give them any. All I want is for my daughter to finish her snack so I can shift away. Show respect. I remember what it was like to feel watched but not seen.