It seems you have remembered
The way we amused ourselves when we were little.
At grandma’s house in the cinnamon scented basement.
Made drawings of our dreams
And in the future we would grow apart
To become our own separate people.

Why can’t the people
You were close to when you were little,
Be the ones who remember
The times we had in the basement
Until we moved apart,
Crushing our dreams

Of another day in my grandma’s rectangular basement
Playing sports beyond our wildest dreams.
If we even had dreams when we were little
Which were killed like a deer in hunting season when we split apart?
It was hardest thing not to remember.
How broken-hearted our parents were for us little people.

It seems I remember
The time our parents had to pull us apart.
When we were only seen as little
Ones playing in the basement
Of our dreams.
Without any other people,

Around to cut our dreams
Short so that we don’t remember
The people
That were avoided while in the basement.
It seems that nobody could pull us apart.
If they did they had to drag us by our collars because we were so little.

When we were apart,
It destroyed the people
Around us that didn’t see our dreams
About grandma’s basement
And how little
Time we had together and how much we remember.