Hand in hand, my parents and I walked.
Their legs were so long, they could extend over miles.
I had to dance on my toes to keep up with them.

Often, I was not an only child, and I was not the center of their attention.
However, this time, sandwiched between them like turkey on rye,
I looked up and asked them, “Whee?”

With no brother there and no dog and no care,
My parents lifted me up off of the ground.
I held tight to their hands as they pulled me up,
and I felt the rush from flying overwhelm me.

That feeling beat every race car game
and every dress-up time with friends.
That feeling was worth every paper cut
and every bully that called me names.

I swung up and back down with two taps on the pavement.
I looked up at my parents again with a light in my eyes,
and both of my parents smiled at each other.
We released hands, and my father groaned, “I’m getting too old for this.”

We laughed.
Growing old didn’t seem inevitable yet.
Poetry came in “I am” stanzas,
and kisses only came from family.

This was a time when he could carry me to bed;
This was a time when my mother tucked me in;
This was a time when life seemed simple,
and all I needed to make me smile was “1, 2, 3, whee!”