We swam in our backyard pond—feet kicking through weeds, chasing snapping turtles, jumping off our old wooden raft. We dove from the dock, playing mermaid, swinging from the tree branches above then diving deep into the cool water below. We stayed out until the white moon gazed down and the stars woke up and our moms called us home.
In summer, we raced our bikes down the big hill, and in winter, when snow filled the woods, we darted by trees on fiberglass sleds.
We rode in the station wagon to the movies, all of us, cousins, siblings, friends. We played punch-buggy and argued and laughed and teased each other. We hid candy in our pockets. Later we drank coke and ate pop-corn and whispered across the aisle.
We danced in the living room. We sang into hair brushes and twisted our bodies and flung our arms in the air. We climbed into bunk beds and played dolls and told ghost stories and ate devil dogs.
We kept secrets—good and bad and terrible. We held them like babies and never gave them up. Still even now.
You gave me this story—the one where we grew up together arms linked as if nothing could break us. You gave me the pond and the hill and the laughing and the dancing. I will remember it my way even though I know it was much different for you.
Even though I know more now. I will remember it my way.
image via weheartit