To myself: I want you to recall the time when we stood on the burning concrete, summer heat in our lungs, hands reached up towards the sky, the neighbourhood under our fingertips.
You could do anything you wanted to. No one could stop you.
Now, I want you to recall the first time we thought about what we really wanted, curled up against the sidewalk on the last day of summer.
We don’t talk about our favourite colours anymore. Wake up.
Didn’t you feel sad when you stood up on that hill, and dusted the dirt from your knees? Didn’t you miss the crumbly sound of the tricycle our neighbours smiled at?
You thought we wouldn’t feel the absence of it, that last summer, when you forgot what you wanted.
There were times when what you wanted stemmed from the promises of ice cream, a leg up on the heat the sun licked down the streets in the summer.
You’d have nightmares where you would drop your cone on the ground, sizzling stickily on the pavement as we mourned the death of another good day.
Our fondest memories, tucked in the hollow of a tree, our whispers like loose threads in our scarves.
We wanted a new planet— a bigger one, one where we could hear the stars singing without looking up, where lost belongings came back to you, a planet where the only season was summer.
Your last response to why your favourite season was summer was because there was no school. Did our times mean so little to you?
Or were you just hiding what you really wanted, not wanting anyone to glance up and see the world that we created, our planet with everything we wanted?
Remember that summer, where the only place we looked was up.
From me to you, us; we.