Rainfall, trees and sky: they are precious, but they are not mine.
What happened to kickball, lace trimmed socks and the taste of earwax?
My neighbors must have taken them when I stood still, with my head tilted back to watch the heat lightning.
I held the kickball in both hands and my eyes to the clouds.
Maybe I left them there, when Mom’s lavender still bloomed by the side of the house, where the cement foundation shown gray.
This is where the chipmunks lived, the ones the cat watches all day. She waits for me to drive back and ask her name. Her window watches my world.
They are all precious, but they are not mine.
I don’t remember the colors of our shirts or our kickball, and maybe it wasn’t even lavender that bloomed against august nights.
I have no flowers. I have no house.
I am warm and you are glass, somewhere in the past.
Free Write 