my attic

When I was eight years old
I practiced every day.

I practiced every day
and I'm not just talking about piano.

I practiced smiling in the mirror.
I practiced walking from my chair to the drinking fountain.
I practiced spelling words and flirting with boys
I practiced speaking out loud
and being unapologetic.

I practiced wishing,
wishing for things.

Wishing for an attic
or a treehouse.
Wishing for a place to call my own.
a place to grow up.
to grow out.

and now I'm here.

I've grown up.
I've outgrown
my attic, and my practicing,
and everything that used to feel like me.

So I'll move to Provo,
and I'll buy my own groceries
and I won't cry while I do it.

And maybe I'll find my attic.