Kaylan was my oldest and greatest friend.
When I moved from the city
into our trailer in the hills,
she was the only one who understood seven-year-old me.
Every Friday evening, I'd sit
peering out of my screen door
fogging up the glass in anticipation
and dreaming of the fun we'd have.
We experienced everything...
everything this part of the country could offer.
Blacklights, eyeliner, crushes, and alcohol:
Forbidden things. We unearthed ancient secrets.
We'd lie in the pool until she turned watermelon pink
and I turned dark like the soil.
Sunday morning, we'd wake up and put on pretty, white dresses.
We'd tie ribbons into our curls and carry our Bibles
and giggle at the old women sleeping in the choir
until my father scolded us.
We loved each other.
Adolescence is a cruel thing, with its deceptions and expectations,
and as we passed through it,
we forgot our Friday evenings and Saturday nights and Sunday mornings.
She's very much the same, but I have turned myself inside out,
with my bones on display on the outside of me.
People say I'm better off now than then,
or they say we have to keep up with the real world that pulls people apart
but sometimes, I miss her and I wish I were half as honest
or pretty, or pure as she is now
but then I remember
I am brown like soil--
rich and promising--
and now she holds her husband's hand
and he doesn't let her talk.
Labels: almost memories, church, kaylan, summer
0 Comments