you would hide bubble gum on the windowsill for me to find when i came home from school. you would tell me that a bird left it there for me because i’d been good at school.
going down our treelined driveway you would pretend our car could drive by itself – while unbeknownst to me you were using your knee to steer. i thought that, perhaps, our car really was magical.
you had a pink room and a trapdoor that lead to a secret passageway. i was so jealous.
you pulled over at the sight of the trees laden with cherries. we piled out of the car and started tugging on the branches. you consistently taught us to love and appreciate nature and to enjoy it with wild abandon.
we stayed awake all night talking. about boys i’m sure. we’d saved up all our money from ‘sausage sizzles’ outside of the warehouse and here we were on our adventure.
dunedin, new zealand:
you came into the cafe. bashful and just the right amount of scruffy. bought me a slice of my favorite dessert and we had a picnic in the gardens.
a notebook. placed next to your bed, which you’d given up for me. reading the story. about a girl and a shining star that she couldn’t see. wondering if it was meant for me. not recalling ever having read something so beautiful.
the crowd gathering around the young boy. you jumped out of the water and ran over, moving aside the onlookers. bent down and tried to revive him. lips locked in an attempt to restore life. horrified stares. focussed and refusing to give up hope. but it was too late.
you sat on the end of my bed. heard the drama that had played out. as the tears dried on my cheeks. you sang to me. and i didn’t ever want you to stop.
a train ride. henry next to me illegally (no dogs allowed). hearing the grief in your voice as you responded to my pain. the first time i felt really close to you in 26 years.
your bed. always large enough to fit whoever was around. a safe place to land. looking at pictures. laughing. watching the gas flame bursts out of your window.