Emily Kelley

When I Am 11

Emily Kelley

I am 11 and the lemony hot smell of saddle soap is starting to slowly fade out of my life. I wear my navy Tom Brady jersey as many days as I can, and my hair is tied with an elastic in a low ponytail, a straight line down my back, creating perfect pre-teen symmetry. I am 11 and I no longer live in riding pants; soccer shin pads are my new uniform. I have a growing collection of EOS lip balm, sherbets and mint blues all crowding my pink nightstand, egg-shaped and teetering. I am 11 and my sisters are so pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes and brown hair and green eyes—when will it become my turn? I am 11 and know already a little bit of the darkness that lives inside my brother; I cast worried glances at him always with my small face. I only listen to classical music and hummingbirds as they fly around my head in Colorado. I am 11 and I gallop through the woods on a sunset-speckled horse named Fanta, inhaling the scent of ponderosa as we charge onto the open plain. I am 11 and am always scared to gallop, but here we go and I am okay. I am 11 and can already feel my childhood galloping away from me with the August air.

Author's Note: I love writing because it is a wonderful outlet for me for expressing my thoughts and coming to peace with the world around me.