B is for boy,
the neighbor I met at an age
too young to remember.
My best friend and co-conspirator.
Remember the time we tried to bury
your mom’s car
with sand from your sandbox?
Or when
we were chased by bees,
discovering your allergy?
B is for blue
Power Ranger at Halloween.
I was pink.
Then one day you moved.
When we met,
nearly twice as old as when you left,
I saw mischef in your eyes
and it was as if time never passed.
But so much had.
I was not the person I remember.
Neither were you.
But we picked up the pieces.
We moved beyond.