What I'll Remember

I'll remember the dew drops.

The ones on the grass after

a particularly humid night.

I'll remember the golden sunlight

seeping into our kitchen window

in the morning.

It would catch the side of our faces,

making us squint in delight.

I'll remember walking outside on exceptionally 

hot days.

To the ice-cream shop.

The little one, tucked in the corner of a busy street.

The one with the best maple soft-serve I've ever 

laid my tongue on.

We'd laugh when one of us dug our face

too deep into the cone  

and ended up with a glob of cream on their upper lip.

I'll always remember the water.

The tiny dock on the beach.

The one filled with memories.

The countless times we'd leap

into that water, making a splash.

We would countdown from 10,

making it feel like the blast-off 

of a rocket.

All five of us.

Holding hands.

Even though each one of

our fingers were shriveled like raisins

from being in the lake for too long.

We didn't care.

We were free.

We were lucky.

Roasting marshmallows

at the bonfire, I would 

think about my good fortune.

And in the middle of my thoughts,

I would feel a doughty tap on my shoulder,

and would hear "Ha, gotcha! You're it by the way."

Then, we'd race around the yard,

yelping and yowling.

Possibly waking up every single

sleeping person for miles.

This was how it should be,

and these will be the things

I'll always dwell on.

These are the stories I'll choose to share for years.

And, these are the things

I'll always remember.