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  • Writer's picturebibbetybo

Nostalgia, Part 2

Is there anything sweeter than being a happy, healthy young person with decades of life ahead of you? Not in my book. Maybe that’s why I’m so nostalgic about childhood, especially the period between ages seven and eleven. For me, that was the sweet spot, a time when I had the freedom to come and go as I pleased (at least during the day) but hadn’t yet been bludgeoned by the woes of adolescence.

In last week’s blog, I looked back on one of my favorite childhood memories. This week, as a companion piece to that blog, I offer my poetic tribute to the little buddies who shared in my excellent adventure.

Me, Sharon, and Merrill

Days lasted weeks. We slept in our houses and

ate there but mostly lived our summer lives

outdoors. We danced hopscotch in the alley. Our

bikes were horses, our arms wings. Our skates

rattled across ribbed sidewalks, throwing us

kneefirst into new abrasions. We nursed mangled

insects on Kleenex beds that doubled as coffins.

On rainy days we swam in the air. When we were

spies, we sometimes forgot we were spies and

chased butterflies instead. We belonged to

each other like Pan’s lost boys; we were a welded

three-pack of marshmallow Easter chicks, and

every night our mothers tore us apart,

abruptly individualizing us before reslotting us

into our proper family units. They dropped us into

baths, where Mr. Bubble dissolved the kidsy smell

of dirt and grass and made us fit for our sheets.

We slept, and in our dreams we found each other

and played on.

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