July 12, 2022

notes from the observatory, part 2

Once, everything you needed fit into a purse the color of your grandmother’s caramels.
Inside, a thin wallet with a single dollar bill and a library card. A stick of chewing gum.
A best friend was anyone who got on their bike and rode alongside you. 
In the span of an afternoon, you were inseparable. Before dinner, you let each other go.
This was its own act of kindness. 
Summer, everything slowed to first gear, then multiplied.
Was it your imagination, or did everything feel like it was cracking open?
Everything was cracking open. 
The neighborhood, laced with garden hoses turned on full-blast.
Even now, you are giddy when the water comes on, your body still aiming for freedom.