Overcast Sunday morning. Brisk north wind. Two boys play soccer in practice field next to deserted high school. One wears olive green hoodie, red mesh shorts, fluorescent orange cleats. Friend wears grey beanie cap, black Adidas sweats, blue t-shirt over black long-sleeves. Early teens, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years: that tender age when child’s body stretches over a lithe, growing frame; when youthful energy meets budding strength, resulting in effortless, tireless athleticism; when cell phones and Snapchat porn vie equally with Legos and hide-and-seek matches; when dreams begin their inexorable march against the onslaught of daily existence. Hoodie boy scores goal against friend; yells in victory, voice cracks; they switch places. In ten, fifteen years’ time, where will the boys be? Who will they become? Will they remain friends? Will they remember this cold November morning? Will they remember their dreams? Will they remember to dream? Do I? Would that I could talk to my fourteen-year-old self. Why does it take us a lifetime to figure out how to live a life?