endless spring

I opened the door to put up the Easter gel clings, 

and was greeted by my childhood.

Children were playing outside, running

across the lawns on the bright

spring evening.

The light shone across the houses in that warm way,

where you could tell the weather was beautiful 

without even stepping outside.

The same way it did when I used to ride

scooters with my friends, and we were called

in for dinner for the last time.

And we begged to go back out after,

because it was still light outside, the spring

air aglow and waiting for us, our scooters

flat on the grass just like we were when we

got tired from playing tag.

We would squint at the sun, its warmth on

our skin combined with the prickly feeling of

grass on our backs, planning out our

adventures for the next day, week, month.

And when we said, "see you tomorrow!" 

for the last time, 

thinking there wouldn't be a last time,

the air grew colder.

And the scooters were still left on the lawn,

except we were no longer lying flat on the 

grass next to them.

The sun was so hidden away behind the

clouds we began questioning whether it would ever

come out again.

But then I opened the door to put up the

Easter gel clings

and I saw the kids running across the lawns,

holding hands and spinning in circles before

falling onto the grass.

I saw the way it looked like spring—

I didn't need a calendar or a clock 

to tell me the time and season.

I saw the siblings of the kids I used to play with, 

who weren't really kids anymore, and

the houses I used to run in and out of, 

jealous that they didn't grow up with us.

And I didn't see the scooters, or the kids

lying flat on their backs on the grass,

because who knows, maybe they didn't

even do that anymore. Like we did.

But I saw myself,

even though I wasn't there.