There was a time when I wanted to be just one of the boys of summer, whatever that might mean, and it’s meant something different with each passing year. I am very clearly no longer a boy, and haven’t been for quite some time. My childhood withered decades ago, probably much earlier than my physical appearance would have anyone guess. I’ve felt like a very old soul since I first became aware of myself. It’s part of why childhood proved so seemingly difficult for me: relating to other kids was never easy, because I never truly felt like a kid. I never had that carefree confidence because I always knew, on some level, how very different I was from the other kids. That makes you grow up quickly. That makes you old even when you’re not.
I can see you
Your brown skin shining in the sun
I see you walking real slow and
Smiling at everyone
I can tell you, my love for you will still be strong
After the boys of summer have gone
These days I feel a little more tired and weary than usual, a state in which I’ve uncomfortably become more comfortable, for worse and far from better. I see it in this picture, and more keenly I feel it within my own body and mind. Approaching the age of 49, I don’t mind growing older – it feels like I’m coming more and more into my own, that this long journey is just starting to make a little sense – but it still takes its toll. There are days when it’s exhausting, when the business of being who the world thinks I am – the person I’ve made the world think I am – feels overwhelming, and I just don’t want to do it.
Then I think back to when I was a boy. If I could do it then – unprotected, untried, unknown to my own self – how could I not do it now? Or at the very least, how could I not try?
