Reid@YWP

I am eight. I sit across from my mom in my pediatrician’s office on the paper-covered table. The paper is crinkled and uncomfortable. My mother’s head is cupped in her hands as the pediatrician leaves the room.

I hear the rain on the roof of my car, loud and serene. 

I see the wet pavement stretch out for miles in front of me. 

I don’t look back. 

I remember a time

When I felt so free

And everything, anything, I wanted could be.

The person next to me was everything

The worlds we created were ours.

Our vision was color and light and laughter

Dear Mr. Snowman,

I wonder what it's like, being made of snow.

What have you observed? What all do you know?

On warmer days you could melt 

Or be blown away by the breeze.