moments – summer storm

April 2017 

Pins & University

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twirling under the first warm rain of the season, alone and free as a bird
I laugh as I take off my flats and jump in the puddles that are already forming

if only playing in this early summer storm was enough 
it would let me forget 

but how many times do I have to spin and how fast do I have to run to get away from the memories of the boy I love 
who, after all this, doesn’t think I’m enough 

But I’ll never be enough for someone who hates who they are

thunderstorms surround me
and the sharp gravel of the city streets crunches underneath my bare feet 
my blue suede skirt twirls in the purple wind; the grey-indigo sky turbulent 

As the wind becomes a roar and the caress a downpour, I follow the yellow lights back home. Hoping and dreading, knowing you’ll be there, too — 

No matter where I go or what I do, I can’t seem to get away from you

 fireflies

the sky is the softest of twilit blues, the air heavy with humidity, sweet as the honeysuckle vines that line maryland avenue. the south river shimmers on the horizon, a cerulean expanse of warm water where we would go skinny dipping every fourth of july. summer; home.

Scrambling up our wooden playground just to slide back down, grabbing the colored ribbons of the eight roly-poly puppies our dog had brought into the world a mere six weeks ago

That blue summer night, I felt so free. No math or gymnastics, no place I had to be. So warm, seated shoulder-to-shoulder and in laps on the grass. blanketed beneath the fading sky: my two sisters, my mom, and I.

We were together, as a family. Or as much of a family as we could be. That night was enough to forget we were missing my dad, fighting an undeclared war in Iraq.

fireflies flicker way up high, like magic – on again, off again. the darker it gets, the more of them I see, lighting up the old oak trees.

there were nights when we would catch them, my little sister and I. hold them covered in our hands, peeking in with one eye. sometimes, Mom would let us move them to glass jars, permeated with just enough holes so they could breathe

we’d watch them flicker by our bedsides, like nightlights.
until the morning came and they were just black-and-orange bugs again; crawling, encaged.
we, too, knew how it felt to be caught by life involuntarily
so we unscrewed the tops, and let the fireflies fly free