When I was little I laid awake at night waiting for that hand of death to reach over the edge of my bed and strangle my throat. Even now I swallow slow and quiet. Tickling wasn’t the nature of that beast.
When I was growing I learned that forever was a fairy tale told by the broken hearted and paintings like Starry Night were hopeless soliloquies to a life fulfilled, but not lived.
I remember sitting on a school bus with like volcanic tendrils of curiosity as the lingering voice of my mother saying I love you have a nice day, reminds me I am not alone.
Sixth grade a cruel grade of children treading water in hormones of popularity and missed opportunity to play kickball, being chosen last, too shy to make eye contact as a heart races to the rhythm of pick me pick me.
I remember those days when play was luring and boys no longer thick with cooties emerged like butterflies or moths. When notes hand written no longer said will you be my friend and scribed do you like me yes or no.
I go there from time to time, that place where fairy tales danced and the future was possible. Where the essence of pork chops frying and mother wiping her hands on a towel take me away from who I am now.
I go back when I can to a place I live no more. Underscore the changes life brings whether we are ready or sleeping. Life creeps through the back door like a thief armed, but cowardly ready to steal that which we have not preserved, protected, contemplated, but neglected.
I walk tiptoeing, not wanting to disturb a recollection of past connection in a place I can no longer run home to yell, hey mom guess what happened today.
Vivid and reticent, where giant dreams gauged the day and every moment was caught in play.