but we'd be dirty as soon
as they were out of sight.
The bell would ring and
we'd file in, youngest to
oldest, a pride being last.
You were grown up then.
But in our infant years,
we lived in a perfect world,
no shades of grey, pure black
and white. Right and wrong.
We often wondered how to become
a mom. A boy told us how it was
all done. We asked our parents that
night. Blushes say everything.
He had been right, who
would have guessed. Our tiny
worlds were shattered,
injected with adult thoughts.
We finally grew up and filed in
last. And we got to tell
someone younger how
they had come to earth.