Writing

You had always been neat. As a child, you would organize your toys in order of height, and your clothes in the rainbow. Your parents had wondered about OCD, but you always said you were just tidy. 

“On a dark and stormy night” 

“Oh don’t start like that…Those stories are always stupid,” I say as I adjust my seating position. “Can’t I just go trick or treating now?” 

This morning, I am looking through this window

of the second floor of this lovely little house

and inside I see this person dancing

and breathing a joyed word to the Sun.

Bubu,

You haven’t heard our clacking in a while. 
What have you forgotten?

We remember all those tireless nights: 
swallowed by the game, 
the lively yells that you loved. 

The West Wind is a banker in a smart navy suit and a tie. His dress shoes clack on the pavement; he’s got someplace to be, always someplace to be, rushing to the sidewalk, the subway, the elevator, checking his gold Rolex watch.

I want to go back to that simpler time,

Where we ran through fields and played in dirt,

When we had an abundance of freedom, a million open moments,