We were kids when we crashed our bikes on the playground. You skinned your knee, and I rode you to my house for band-aids and a Coke.
We’re grown up now. I mean, we’re juniors, and you have your license and all. (But we still have curfew, and my mom will be expecting me.)
Your bedroom is a mix of both. You got rid of that pink wallpaper last year, but stuffed animals still crowd your bed.
“Can you braid my hair?” You ask.
You sit between my legs, your wavy hair in my fingers.
I’m going to be late.
Cynthia Hamill 