On the first warm days of spring,

when a balmy gust of wind passes me by,

I feel a ghost trailing behind me.

I'm always trying to bury my younger self.

Pretend they were someone else,

someone I can ignore. Or forget.

When I feel them drifting by

in the warm March breeze

on a sunny day

amidst the weeds, wildflowers,

and heavy lakeside air,

they are ashamed of themself,

but I hear them silently beg for my forgiveness.

Were they really everything terrible

that I remember them being?

Embarassing? Ignorant? Naive? Intolerable?

Unforgivable?

Maybe they're just a child.

Confused, siltently screaming to be loved.

And known without judgement.