It came upon me like a behemoth draped in child’s pajamas. High School. How did this sneak up on me? I feel intuitively that I just finished h.s. myself about, maybe, 15 long years ago? Of course it was approximately an eon hence since I donned zipper-bedevilled bell-bottoms, since I wore puka shells without irony and wore my then substantial hair in lengths that neither flattered me nor drew the opposite sex to me. I moved about in a regrettable cloud of Leo Sayer. That morning (Monday August 24, 2009), my son, or little boy, began high school. I had a mild nightmare about the blossoming new epoch Saturday night and awoke Sunday morning in tears. George Harrison solemnly intoned that All Things Must Pass, and then he politely passed. But why this? Why does this have to pass? I’ve just grown accustomed to the hand-holding and hugging and shy confidences, and now we enter the darkling era of fishnet gloves and projectile ennui? Already? The outlandish finitude of All This, combined with the irreducible fact of everything happening exactly and only once, have conspired to make me one of the walking wounded; a bruised husk. Give me back my Flower!

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