The Practical Years

Poems on how growing up is dreadfully practical.

I've been stockpiling poems lately. Here are a few.

Honeysuckles

Honeysuckles are sewn into the chain-link fence
of the daycare on my twenty-two minute walk home.
Before I see them, I smell them.
They make the air taste like recess and Oak Hill.

At some point, Alex and I stopped claiming swings
and started walking laps around the field.
Back by the batting cage grew a patch of honeysuckles;
each time we passed, we took one.

The world was much more manageable 
when put into subjects and grades. 

Alex is still the person I talk to
when I feel stupid or don't know what a boy means.
The honeysuckles make me think of her,
and of waking up excited for the day,
like it was a new friend to learn everything about.

When these daycare kids get their first apartments
and spot honeysuckles on the walk from their corporate jobs,
I wonder what they will remember.

Growing Up Is Dreadfully Practical

Waiting for an apology is like waiting for a bus 
you know has already left. Whether they know it 
or not (I bet they do 
but that’s beside the point), they’ve already pulled away. 
People only double back when they’ve left 
something important behind. Sometimes 
you’re not the important thing. 

The buses in London have a high utilization 
rate. I don't contribute to that. I rode the bus 
when I first started my job. 
I chose a forty-minute commute for $4 
over a ten-minute drive and $12 in parking.
One of the members of our C-Suite told me it was interesting 
that I valued my money more than my time. I was 23 
and worked for a financial wellbeing company. 
Wasn’t the grown up choice to save money 
everywhere you could? Weren't adults supposed to
have patience for the things they're promised? 

Now I walk to work and never wait 
on buses. Growing up is dreadfully practical. 

Because I am so practical - I didn’t buy this set even though I loved it.

Respect and Balance

"You have so much self-respect," I was told recently. I don't understand the alternative? 

My friends know I get weird if I’m alone for too long. They will ask if I can accompany them to Target 20 minutes before close just to ensure I haven't self-imploded. 

My rebellion used to be in the form of a phone call to a number that had been unblocked. My rebellion is now in paying for an extra workout class (on top of my monthly allowance) because it’s the same price as steak frites and better for me. 

There are girls who define their worth in how many free Dirty Shirley's they can get at a bar and how many people have seen their nice underwear. That’s an easy and tangible way to consider yourself worthy. Those are actionable items. Sadly, I am not so easily satiated. 

I woke up to a 1:38am text message from a man whose name is omitted from my phone and replaced with a gravestone. We hadn’t spoken in over a year. If this had been 2025, I would have replied. But it isn’t. 

When I have kids and they date idiots and need life advice, I will be proud to say I didn’t reply to that text message. Sometimes I fear I do things so I can tell someone else that I did them. 

All of the fitness instructors I follow on the internet have been reposting the phrase, “eat like you respect yourself”. I think about it now when the waiter asks if I know what I want. I’ve heard of food being a form of love, my grandma taught me that, but as a form of respect? I wonder if one day I'll realize metaphors are worthless and I've spent my life coming up with ideas of no value. Sadly, I now believe everything is a metaphor. I order the salad with pumpkin seeds and a side of truffle fries. Respect and balance have to have something to do with each other. 

So far this year, I’ve cut two people out of my life like tumors. I’ve found the build-up to it is the worst part. Unlike love, where the build-up could be considered the most delectable part, the lead-up to separation is sour. Once it’s done, the taste leaves your mouth. I wish love was the same way. 

If that's self-respect, I suppose I have it.

sending my love,

caroline mae woodson