Stars

All I ever wanted was for a little girl to pass me in the hallway and say,

"She's amazing.

I want to be just like her."

Because when I was a little girl

I would see stars in green-and-blue pleated skirts,

beautiful,

taking no heed of the awe in my eyes but only seeming to bask in their glory,

walking with purpose, undeviated, soft smiles breaking into laughter

as they chatter loudly with their friends.

They were going places.

They knew what they wanted,

and they grabbed it by the throat, shaking their dreams from fate's fingers

and ready to claim them as their own,

while my inexperienced hands fumbled in the foggy darkness in front of me,

I didn't know what I was grabbing for,

I couldn't see where I was going.

But when the stars passed by on the bleak horizon

I could point and whisper to the sky,

I want to be just like them.

What do you want to be?

What do you want to be when you grow up?
It's a favorite to ask kids.
It's a favorite to ask teenagers.
But with each time we get asked, the seriousness of it stacks higher,
Like a jenga tower, each block so precariously placed
And always in danger of toppling to the ground
And forcing you to start at square one,
Building your dreams again on your hands and knees.