I don’t remember the day
By Kelly H., Tampa, FL
I don’t remember the day you finally grew taller than me,
Or when your voice finally changed
so Mom and Dad didn’t confuse us over the phone -
Baby-fine golden hair and cornflower blue eyes,
Crayon colors; and I remember the smells
Of coloring Kelly Green, and Jimmy Fire-Engine Red,
The make-believe color so you wouldn’t be jealous -
And I don’t remember the last time
We went exploring together, we terrestrial cartographers,
Dirt smudged in the whorls of our fingertips,
Building forts in lonely trees and rafting on planks of plywood -
You ran away with me once
Our brown paper suitcases filled with toy cars
And peanut-butter sandwiches with the crusts still on
It was a messy escape - jam everywhere -
But we were happy, sticky and purple in July’s heat.
Summer days with you slipped by,
And I,
More grown than you (but shorter, too)
Know now what I always knew - Love, unlike memory,
Does not fade into murky sunlight.
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