James lifts me high
over his head,
so that I can be a helicopter,
like the brown ones that fall from trees,
and spin through the air
in our open living room.
As I float in his arms,
I am weightless,
careless,
a tiny blur against the green walls.
I am safe here with my brother,
the only helicopter in our sky
below the popcorn ceiling.
I do not need wings to fly.
James will help me soar,
help me laugh,
help me twirl.
He calls out funny things to me—
sweet silly tales—
of how he eats socks,
and his favorite color is clear.
My giggles propel us upward
until we are high on a cloud,
James and I,
and the years that divide us
are fourteen specks in the distance.
Time does not dare to touch us.
We are always,
James and I.