I remember summer breezes blowing through the tree in my backyard.
I remember chasing butterflies around the field.
I remember making tea with herbs from my garden.
I remember building secret hideouts in the bushes around your yard.
I remember wading in freezing cold creeks together, squealing at the cold.
I remember climbing trees, seeing who could get the highest.
I remember the wind in my hair as we raced our bikes around the block.
I remember reading in the library together, not talking, just enjoying being near each other.
I remember sneaking sodas and candy to your room when we had sleepovers.
I remember the worlds we created together, just the two of us, playing for hours.
I remember hiding under the porch, waiting to jump out at someone.
I remember the game we played in the shadows out back.
I remember playing around the campfire, singing songs.
I remember running around in cloaks, pretending to be witches.
I remember the look on your face when I told you I had to leave.
I remember my last day there.
I remember crying on your porch, wishing it wasn’t true.
I remember the hug that lasted forever, and not long enough.
I remember driving away, and seeing you standing there, watching us leave.
I remember all the letters we wrote, promising to stay in touch.
I remember, and I miss you. But eventually, we drifted apart, so I do the only thing I can.