You’re seventeen and you sign on the dotted line, and no longer belong to yourself. You belong to Uncle Sam and he’s not a friend. You feel excited, your mother’s hiding tears. Your father, too. You’re too young to know what’s ahead. You’re invincible.

You’re eighteen and then nineteen and halfway across the world. The city’s big, the lights almost too bright. You find love. It’s real, you think. Your friends all wear the same clothes. Combat boots and fatigues in green and brown. You leave, again, but not for home.

You’re twenty and you’re gone again, to another side of the world. Hot desert air greets you. Your friends, different than before, are now dressed in beige and tan. You lose your first love, stay as strong as you can.

It’s more dangerous than you expected and you don’t feel safe.

You’re twenty-one and can’t forget the smell of dust, of blood. It’s embedded in your skin and you see it every time you close your eyes. You leave the desert, return to your sort-of home. Everything is different.

You know you’re not invincible.

You’re twenty-two and you’re back home. You are fine, you say to everyone. You’re not fine. You can’t sleep, and still smell blood. You avoid people who knew you before, when you were seventeen.

You’re twenty-three and move away. You go to school, change your major three times. Your friends wear branded sweatshirts and cheer at football games. You blend in but you’re not one of them. They don’t understand. No one understands.

You’re twenty-four and then twenty-five. You go halfway across the world, again, for education this time.

Your friends have accents and are young. You’re years older than them, too serious. You have fun sometimes and leave at the end. You don’t keep in touch.

You’re twenty-six and in a foreign country. You are a tourist, on a trip with strangers. They don’t care who you are. You can be anyone. You’re in constant motion for six weeks, run out of money with two days left.

You return home.

You’re twenty-seven and you’re in therapy. Your friends are old men, bitter from life and loss. You have to finish school. You don’t want to be a failure. Your brain doesn’t work correctly. You want to die, you think. Not brave enough to do it. You are a failure.

You’re twenty-eight and you’re alive. You’re almost glad for it. You finish college, move back home. It’s different. You are an adult, find an adult job. You can’t sleep and can still smell blood. But it’s fine. Your friends are all adults, too. You think fondly of your past, sometimes.

You’re twenty-nine, then thirty, then thirty-five, then forty. You’re alive, glad for it. You’re home and it’s different. You’re content, more settled. It’s good. Really good.

You’re seventeen and you’re invincible. Until you’re not. You’re forty and you’re alive. It is everything.