For years I’ve read articles about adolescent brains,
focus and index finger meandering through twin studies
of fascinatingly pimply youths.
The surprising findings of physiological programming for all-
night gaming, morning conflicts, agreements made and lost
in reorganizing, rearranging neurons and synapses.
My time comes and sharp counsel from the uninitiated grates against
soothingly philosophical reminiscences from survivors,
because everyone knows the answers, but the questions aren’t clear.
Now, I just struggle from crisis to crisis in a heady cocktail of hormones
and philosophy, and self-questioning on paths I hadn’t planned to travel,
where I find myself looking up at my child and not understanding a thing.