I am a veteran of many wars
but the front lines of my ego
are littered with groaning, shrinking shadows
each as shocked by loss as if I'd never kissed Bryan Panzica in front of my incurably romantic Grandmother on that last day of summer vacation right before we got in the car for 14 hours and drove light years away from Lake Sunapee.
Like I'd never been dropped in the trust fall exercise at Camp Don Lee.
or for heaven’s sake do these shadows not recall being stuffed in the bushes by the Chastain sisters when I was nothing but a compliant follower of the playdate-turned-mean-girls-ritual?
The examples from adulthood won't make us chuckle.
Ego death might not get easier, I'm thinking. I'm not sure we ever conquer it. It seems to just become more stylish, with memes and tarot cards and herb bundles.
But it's still war. Thirsty, bloody war and everyone wins.
Or so they say.
