When I was a teenager, real was the boy who took my virginity.
And then real was the boy who took his own life.
Real was fresh, real was hard, real was confusing.
Real was about love and the idea of being in love.
Real was depression and struggling.
In my twenties, real was a change in circumstance and opportunity. It was moving cross-country to Montana.
Real was following a dream, earning a degree, choosing a life.
Real was getting married young, starting a family, being a working mom.
In my thirties, real is kindergarten registration tomorrow for my five year old son.
Real is that this story starts and ends with a boy.
Real is still about love and the idea of being in love. Real is this love, this life, this boy. Forever.