The day I turned nine, I hiked up
my honeysuckle tutu, and raced
to find you –
there, sprawled out on the hissing
asphalt driveway, with precise strokes of neon
sidewalk chalk, you were writing the words
“I love you.”
We dotted our names with lop-
sided stars and scribbled
stick-figured versions of ourselves years and years
in the future. And when the first zig-
zagged bolt crossed the sky, we screamed
and then laughed, loud
barking laughs at the heavy raindrops.
The night I turned twenty, I cried
myself to sleep, and tucked the paper under
my crocheted blanket. With eyes
closed, I counted the colors behind my lids –
three, four, a kaleidoscope.
Your name still appeared though
– inky, blurring into the foreground,
along with that childhood chalk.