Written by Parker Rogers

Art by Parker Rogers

For Mila, and all of her muchness.

I am teaching her to embroider. 
The family bread recipe is rising in the oven.  

“You’ll like it,” I tell her. “It’s a lot of fun.” 

“Fun? How is school fun?” She asks me. 
Skeptical in a way that only children can be.  

I know exactly what not to say, 
as my uncle listens from the next room 
I know not to tell her: 
about the smoke, 
and the drink, 
the hickeys hidden under my shirt, 
and that there’s no such thing as curfews.

I can’t tell her: 
about how it’s only okay to steal from corporations, 
but how even this is risky with AI. 
Or how even though it’ll affect your memories, 
there are some events you just have to pregame. 
And no matter how hard any of us try, 
we will never live up to the night her parents met. 

I don’t tell her: 
about the frat across the street 
that lives to redefine the term ‘day-drinking.’
Or how, when you both got to school
the kid you used to work with fell in love 
with nitrous, blow, and four, five, and threesomes. 

Instead, I tell her about living in a big house full of kids. 

“They’re not kids, they’re adults,” she corrects me. 

I don’t explain how the older you get, the younger everyone seems. 
How she might think I have things pretty figured out, 
but a few years ago, I was in the ward, 
and no one can really get a grasp 
on their substance abuse issues. 

“They’re still kids,” I tell her, with a crooked grin. “We’re all just kids.” 

I tell her: 
I was twenty-two the first time a boy bought me flowers. 
These things just take time. 
I tell her about how, sometimes, 
sitting across from someone at a bar
can pay handsomely.
And how, maybe, an old man will come along,
and remind you why you went to school in the first place. 

I tell her: 
it's the only time in your life 
when having two hundred dollars 
makes you filthy fucking rich. 
And you can hang out with someone twice 
before asking them to paddle out with you into a lake 
you both know is full of monsters. 
How the stuff you’ll remember the most 
is jokes about horses,
short films about goldfish,
shadow puppets by the water,
and strange homoerotic one-act plays with no intermission. 

Music will become a big part of your life. 
Art will too. 
And in more ways than one, 
the greatest gift someone can give you
is a pair of socks. 

I tell her:
whatever you do, you have to do passionately. 
There's a good chance at one point or another 
you’ll work a job you don’t like, 
so pick a major that you do. 

I tell her: 
not to worry too much about timing, 
just focus on what you’re feeling;
and to read lots of poetry. 

I don’t tell her:
that it’ll be lonelier than you think. 
It’ll be full of moments under pines or on heating vents, 
when you’ll be just as scared of change 
as everything staying the same. 
You’ll learn to love the cold, 
for it lets you feel your pulse. 
You’ll forget how to miss anyone but your brothers.  
That it’ll be years of meaningless touch 
before you find what you’ve been looking for.  
And once you go 
you can never truly go home again, 
because if you do the walls will be painted a color 
you can’t understand, 
and the ghost of the room you grew up in
will haunt you 
like a hollowed-out gourd. 

The timer dings, and before I go to pull the bread from the oven,
I tell her: 
to laugh as loud as you can,
to always walk into a room like a hurricane, 
 
and for the love of god, 
just shake your professor's hand.