We rolled it off our tongues: “Twenty-twenty.” Distant and foreign sounding and a million miles away
We graduated high school in 2010. The silly songs we sang, the ditties we chanted, they were easy to rhyme — they all ended triumphantly with twe-eee-nty-ten.
That last week, we sat with our autograph books and souvenirs for hours, lingering in the school corridors after the bell, holding onto the minutes, stalling. Trying to still time, distill time into these moments together.
Some of us got it. So many of us didn’t — that these were the last half-hours in safety, in childhood, in uniform.
That we’d walk out free women, no one hovering over us with late slips, demands, rebukes. Where were you? Why isn’t this completed?
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