Don’t Count

One. The number of full school years I have left before I finish high school.

Two. Track number of the song that means most to me.

Three. The age I was when I came back to live here, from living with grandparents.

Four. The amount of minutes left before my birthday was over when I decided to listen to stay in the car and listen to great music instead of going inside.

Five. The number of months left before I move across the country.

Six. The period I had lunch in middle school, where I would visit my art teacher and then unfortunately have to actually go to the lunch room.

Seven. The abbreviation for my favorite month of the year.

Eight. The number of dumplings that come in an order from my favorite Chinese restaurant in town.

Nine. The age I was when I moved out of the town I’d spent my childhood in, catching fireflies and learning to ride my bike.

Ten. The number of birthdays it’s been since my dad last said happy birthday to me.

Eleven. One of my favorite numbers, always signifying calmness & neutrality to me.

Twelve. The latest I can stay up on school nights, or no school the next day. Or so I thought, until last week.

Thirteen. Bad luck, or good. Depending on the weather that day.

Fourteen. How old I was when I went to the city alone for the first time (against my mom’s will of course… is there any other way?)

Fifteen. The age I thought I couldn’t count on anyone.

Sixteen. How old I was when I realized that magic does really exist in the world, and was convinced of it yet again, as I had been as a little girl.

Seventeen. My favorite number.

Don’t count, my mom said, holding my face in her hands. Now I don’t know, whether keeping track means immortalizing the things I love, or whether just letting them be shows that I love them more. Happy 17 to me.

2 thoughts on “Don’t Count”

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