Forever Was a Summer

Do you remember when forever was a summer?

When only the sprinkler held us accountable. When our souls were fed on popsicles and bologna sandwiches. 

Now we're the ones feeding to others dreams and gluten-free nuggets.

But you and me and our banana-seat bicycles, we used to fly down the gravel road so dusty we left waves baking in our wake. 

We caught tadpoles in the creek and watched as they grew legs, then we laid on the red plaid blanket under a rain of fireworks. Colors so vibrant against the vast black, they didn't seem real. 

We sailed on station wagon road-trips, vinyl back seat hot on our thighs, no air conditioning, just our hand dipping in the headwind. Sunshine so bright in our eyes, we were blind to adulthood.

So how did we get here? 

We fell through all those weeks with sunburned cheeks and ice cream melting down our small wrists. We played gin rummy all day with nothing else to do but sing along to the radio, and time got lost. When fireflies made the whip-long grass sparkle, we walked just to get out. 

We were gone so long, I guess we disappeared.

Now our responsibilities grow from trees and memories blow through the leaves.

When the heat of August comes, let's carve a boat and glide across the lake back to that place without grocery lists and optometrist appointments and the threat of fall. 

I'll meet you where the dark green grass smells freshly cut and the warm night breeze is a hand brushing across my forehead.

Right now, the street lights have blinked on and I hear my mom calling.