by Cassidy Dekle
ㅤ1. Grassy landscapes of home littered with butterflies,
ㅤ2. and knowing my belongings rest in a snowy vista, while the sun kisses my elbows and fingertips
ㅤ3. My freckles making a seasonal reappearance, and trees sparsely regrowing leaves
ㅤ4. Today, I saw a dog running in the creek and kicking thousands of droplets of water in its wake,
ㅤ5. sometimes my feet carry me places subconsciously, and suddenly I’ve walked miles without realizing it. Like, when we walked from 65th Place all the way past 108th St
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand the conversation never once stagnated.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤLike, when we took the day trip to Cold Spring and I was shivering in my
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤshorts while the drizzle battered our faces but we roamed the town for
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤhours, being much too obnoxious for such a hushed place.
ㅤ6. There’s a grass stain on my palm where his birthmark is.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ Every time I undergo drastic change, I listen to 8. Sound and Color by the Alabama Shakes
9. There’s a baby blue bird with a tangerine toned chest,
like it swallowed up the sun and all its rays whole.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ10. In the summer, a group of us drove out to the countryside and snuck onto ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤsomeone’s property
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ and climbed hay bales riddled with scorpion’s tales
ㅤㅤㅤ and we said we found God at an AT&T store, blue light cascading down my back and onto everyone’s profiles.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ11. And later that summer, on the roof talking until the sun stretched into the sky,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ11.1 Like a baby too attached to its blanket, I cling to this Old Navy sweater when
ㅤㅤI sleep.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAnd we’d sit with our knees touching…
ㅤㅤㅤㅤAnd smoking inside seemed like a testament
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤto newfound adulthood.
ㅤㅤㅤThe tenderness punched an “I love you” out of me when you tucked me in later. I heard the next morning that you threw up from too many Newports and scrunched my nose, chuckling one octave too high.
ㅤㅤㅤ13. Eating Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews and drinking a huge carton of apple cider as we meandered down Fresh Pond. (Good and properly sober, we said our I love you’s that day.)
ㅤㅤHave you ever hugged a ghost? I imagine this is how it feels.
ㅤㅤ14.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ15.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ16.
17. At 18 I wrote metaphor,
17.1
It’s funny looking back; I’ve finally, actually hugged a ghost. Goodnight!
18. Dubious bathroom activities, laughing lots– saying: “I’m nervous!” way too many times at the really, really weird reading.
19. My coworker is 19 and when I found out I gasped and said, in my 21 year old big shoes, “God, I remember what that was like.”
20. A serenade.
21. A eulogy. 21. A closure. 21. The end. 21. The end. 21. The beginning. 21. I went out. 21. I smiled. 21. I spun! 21. I imagine what it would be like to twirl. 21. It’s all new again. 21. I sat on the train home, the same one the day he died. 21. I walked home, nearly skipping. 21. 21. It’s all so okay.