and I was never the same

I grew up in southern California, right next to the beach. My dad built houses and I always use to think "I could never live in a place where the air doesn't smell like the ocean."

 I am six years old, and I am down the street at the neighbors house. I thought it was weird because my friend Avery called the guy married to her mom, "Bobby." I thought it was weird because any man I knew married to any mom was named dad. Bobby and Avery's mom looked different than any parents I knew, they laughed and interlocked their fingers the same way people in movies did.

I am thirteen years old, and my mom is single, and so am I. I trained my brain to think that love was nothing but ordinary. That interlocking fingers was just something boys and girls did to pass some time during movies. Sweaty palms underneath pillows and blankets so parents don't come downstairs and catch us.

I am fifteen years old, my mom is dating, and so am I. She always use to apologize for putting me through a divorce. I tell her mom, I remember when I was about six years old, and I was over at my friends house thinking it was weird that her parents kissed and held hands. You don't have to apologize for putting me through a divorce, you need to apologize for not teaching me how to love.

I am seventeen years old, my mom is married, I am not. My dad builds houses, and I live 697 miles away from the ocean. I hold hands with a boy, and sometimes I have to remind myself love is the farthest thing from ordinary. I live in Utah and I could never imagine not being surrounded by the mountains.