When I started kindergarten,
I thought that my backpack was heavy.
It was completely stuffed
with a giant folder filled with three papers,
and a vibrant box of twenty-four crayons,
and a big-kid pencil that wasn't over-sized like all the other kids'.
I had a puppy to go home to,
and we were both young, noisy, energetic, and full of life.
Girls were icky, and we'd run from each other at recess.
The most hurtful thing anyone could say was “stupid.”
We generally agreed with each other, but sometimes we disagreed on the best color.
We all thought that Santa was real,
and we made friends with everyone we saw.
My face was smooth,
and the only wrinkles that graced my face were from my grin.
My backpack seemed heavy,
But I was a strong kid,
and that backpack didn't feel so heavy when I didn't think about it.

When yesterday began,
I thought that my backpack was heavy.
Others' were fuller, but mine was stuffed
with hefty textbooks telling me how to think,
a dull yellow highlighter with a grayed tip,
and two mechanical pencils that weren't made of plastic like the other kids'.
My puppy had grown up faster than I had,
so I was the only one left with a future.
Girls were devious, and they started chasing me, expecting me to chase after them.
The most hurtful thing anyone could say was “isolated.”
We generally disagreed with each other, but sometimes we agreed on who to hate.
They said that I was stupid for my beliefs,
and only my four close friends would spend time with me.
My face was covered in scruff, exhaustion wrinkles,
dark circles, and a little bit of acne.
My backpack seemed heavy,
But I was a strong kid,
and that backpack didn't feel so heavy when I didn't think about it.

Today is today, though,
and the only thing I can think about
is the day I get to set it down.