Never Just Cousins

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Lindsey and I
were never just cousins.
We were sisters,
We were partners in crime,
We were whatever we wanted to be.

In the backyard,
where the towering brawny tree stood,
Lindsey and I would take turns
swinging on the wooden plank
that hung
from cream colored ropes.
We’d share secrets
and tell stories
that only we know
still to this day.

Our imagination would stretch
as far as the forest.
We made up our own games,
hunting beasts
and flying like superman.

When we were hungry
we would run down
the steep sunlit hill
and find the little old tree
with dozens of sour cherries
and eat them
off the tall skinny branches.

I didn’t like cherries
but I ate them
because Lindsey did.

When our cheeks hurt
and the sharp taste
became too strong,
we would run
up onto the rickety timbered deck
and continue on with our adventures,
never feeling bored,
never tiring.

And when the sky grew navy
and the sun faded away
we would look out
at the dark green forest
that met up with the grass
and wait until we’d see one
sometimes two
or three or four pairs
of glowing yellow eyes
as the curious hoofed animal
made its way out
to the open grounds.

We’d watch for minutes
sometimes an hour
before we would wander off to bed
with heavy eyes
and dreams of today’s journeys.

And I knew that tomorrow
would be another day,
full of new excitement,
new tales,
and new discoveries.

Lindsey was never just my cousin.
She was my sister,
she was my partner in crime,
but mostly,
she was my best friend.





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