i’m six and we are in new york at your house, on the big front lawn, and the grass under my bare feet is sweaty. you throw a rubber ball at me. i catch it. you clap. in the background, cicadas sing a crescendo.

i’m nine and we are at the haste street house, and we step outside into the back garden for a second, the surrounding buildings watchful as giants. suddenly--unimaginably suddenly--it starts to snow. i yell and jump up and down because i’m not used to this, and you laugh your crackle laugh at me, and it is blending in with your hair, and you look like an angel, and then the snow-cloud moves, and it stops as quickly as it came, and i am just left cold with snowflakes fading on my tongue, and you, standing there, arms crossed and smiling, almost waiting.

i miss you. i’ve lost you. where did you go? i’m sixteen and maybe you’re behind a dune. we’re down by pismo beach and this is the last time i saw you before i found out you were dying. there’s sand in my shoes and my legs burn, because it feels like i’m climbing everest when i’m really skidding on sand, and the ice plant just keeps getting thicker, but i’m almost at the top of the tallest dune, and then i get there, and i can see everything, the ocean, the trees, the houses like dropped candy, and you’re there, far below me, next to my family, yellow glasses on, small as an ant, steady as always, and your hands shield your eyes from the sun, and you look at me, and the wind whips songs into your hair, and howls into mine, and for the first time in my life i am not afraid of heights.