I was ten. I stayed on the Upper West Side,An old hotel with dusty paintings in gilded frames.My father kept telling me not to lose anythingAnd not to be on my smartphone all the time.

I was on the third floor, not too far from the ground,A view of a bird’s nest and dark alleywaysCluttered with trash cans and filledWith loud music for the graduates.

As the day unfolded, aging parents woke upAnd came down to take their coffeeAt the French bistro Nice Matin,Where croissants were warm and omelets runny.

As I watched these parents at breakfast,I thought they looked both anxious and gladAnd I wondered if they too felt like graduatesStarting a new adventure.

Soon these graduates will dissolveInto a big new world, a hidden oneBeneath the water’s edge—That I have yet to see, have yet to love.