To Those Considering Adulthood:

Caress adulthood slowly. Do not take her like an unknown lover on a Saturday night. Do not charge her, make her a woman she is not, put makeup on her, put little lies in the cove of her brain. Do not preemptively remind her of her existence. Do not bully her. Do not trust her entirely, and remind her that so many—so many!—have come before her. Let her know that she is yours, you are not hers. Do not let her feel like an afterthought. Do not brush her hair—let her wild slowly like a field of un-named plants. Whole lotta green. Feed her well. Feed her delicious unhealthy things, then put her in yoga.

Shape a pot. Let the edges turn down, melt around the wheel spinning. Let the sides breathe in and out, testing their own structure. Go to class without looking around. Listen to the pottery teacher but set up a wheel in the backyard, make sure to have alone time with the clay. Fingers in it. Squish for days without crafting. Make many pots. Smash some against the sidewalk. Serve friends oatmeal out of others. Let the edges turn down then fire them. Make some perfect. Enter them in stupid pottery contests. Feed the dog from the best one. Sign the bottoms, or leave them anonymous. Do not wash the clay from your fingers. Let it cake and dust and come off during sex or shower. Work with clay that reminds you of when you were younger.

Do not consider adulthood. Consider, instead, yourself.