the bar in manhattan

i am now twenty one years old.

i can drink at the bar in manhattan.
i take a sip of the red wine,
the sounds of overlapping conversations and the smell of spilt beers.

but i cannot be six again.

wading through the creek with my cousin, the welder.
jeans rolled up past our knees. the august sun shining overhead.

twenty one years old.

i step out of the bar in manhattan.
i take a drag of the cigarette,
my chipped black fingernails and smudged red lipstains.

i cannot be six again.

sitting on the porch with my brother, the labourer.
his gloves are too big for me, but warm enough. the october stars shining over us.

twenty one years old.

i stare into the mirror in the bar in manhattan.
i take a long hard look at the woman i see,
her haphazard black liner and the lingering of cheap vanilla perfume.

i cannot be six again.

looking at the little girl in the mirror, the dreamer.
her frizzy blonde curls framing bright and blue eyes. it is april and the vanity lights are shining down on her.

i am now twenty one years old.

i will never be six again.