You know, we're all grown up,
we're in high school now,
no longer just kids.
We act all cool,
curse to our hearts content,
make "That's what she said" jokes.

But who are we really?

She was walking down the street,
pondering her latest boy problems
and friends' drama,
she passed the playground
of her elementary school.
Memories flooded back,
of happy times, happily ignorant.
Could she stand to go back to that?

Who was she, really?

It called to her, appealed to her heart
and she found herself unable to just pass by
without a word, and so she stepped
onto the familiar wood chips
that she had felt so much before.
You can't go home again, right?
But you can come for a visit sometimes.

What is home, really?

She walked across the deserted play place
from the slippery slides to the jacob's ladder
and suddenly she saw the swing sets.
The girl she was back then loved them,
she swung with eyes closed, shoes off,
and head up in the sky.

Who is that girl, really?

She took a deep breath
and kicked off her shoes,
sat on the swing that was so familiar,
it seemed to welcome her home.
She swung, slowly at first, tenatively,
then faster, higher, up into the air.
She closed her eyes and reached to the sky.
Suddenly she was that little girl again.
You can go home sometimes.

What do we know, really?