15 Years

Five-Thousand-Six-Hundred-eighty-three, that’s how many days I have to choose from. How could I pick one that’s my most memorable?

Was it the day I caught my first fish on the camping trip with my dad? Was it going to the park on my bike at sunset with all my childhood friends? Was it the day I had made lemonade for my entire neighborhood and got $50? Was it my first valentine’s day with my boyfriend? Or was it meeting my best friend, maria? Was it doing matching halloween costumes with Vickie and getting so much candy that our bags were overfilling? Was it going to New York City or skiing for the first time? Was it hitting a lib in my stunt group after so much failure? Was it my first sleepover with my friends after we had been waiting for weeks? But was it watching the sunrise on the lone beach, with not a person in sight?

But I don’t remember the days. I remember the moments. I don’t remember the day I caught my first fish or my first sleepover. I remember how happy I was to make these moments and memories. I remember how proud I was to earn that money, learn how to ski, and hit that new skill. I remember the hot August air on my skin, as I ran to the slide. I remember the laughter and joy we had at that park. I remember feeling like I was in a different world, as I looked at the bright city lights, and the sound of the buzzing crowd around me. I remember the peace I felt at that beach, as the breeze blew my hair. I remember the content I felt through these memories. 

I don’t remember whole days. Just moments, that I can’t give a date or a time. Just 15 years of moments, memories. These moments that make up my life and who I am.