I grew up
with donuts on Sundays,
with weekend trips up north,
with bedtime songs,
and the nickname “Boo”.

I grew up
with backyard swings,
with pain in my legs
as I pumped to reach the sky,
to walk atop the clouds.

I grew up
with creaky floors
that whispered into the darkness,
ruining the surprise of my arrival
as I climbed in their bed.

I grew up
with not one,
but two.

I grew up
with oblivion.

I grew up
with a family tree,
full grown with deep roots
and dense leaves.

I grew up
with winter, too,
bare branches
that seemed to grow
in different directions.

As I lay on the ground,
a leaf no longer golden,
I grew up as the tree gave up.