dragonfly

We are six years old again and you tell me why you don't yell.
Then we play spies in the apple trees and I catch a moth big enough to be a bird.
We make some kettle corn and listen to The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe book-on-tape on my jean blanket.
We used to pretend that every gust of wind was a tsunami and that every car was a kidnapper.
And when it was time for you to go home- your mom would whistle- kind of like for a dog. But it had more charm.
Before you left, we would run to my house and get a butter scotch candy from my mom's china cabinet and make promises about when school was out tomorrow.
And we always kept our promises,
and we promised to never grow up.