Home State

A warm night tonight.
Purple streamers flickering under street lights
moths flickering around electric santas
she streamed down the street
checking out every last
inflatable snowman.
we walked arm in arm
harboring some secret future
buried in my being.
In preschool-talk everything is an adventure
"I'm a dolphin swimming to the next conversation!" she said, "swimming
to my home state."
We made poems in the car.
"A frog jumped over a house, and found a scary moose. But the moose turned out to be his mama! And there was a daddy moose too. The end."
"Let's make a poem about pants."
"Let's make a poem about legs."
"About faces."
"Make a poem about excavators."
"About dumptrucks."
But back to our walk.
The bike charges up a bumpy hill, our hands on her back only at the top.
I think of everything, inside and outside at the same time.
"My memories start when I became a sibling," says my friend, "as if the moment I stopped being this cherished 3-year-old and became someone's sister was when my life really began."
Our breath makes steam in the night air. Our colored holiday lights brighten the river darkness.
But it still flows through the woods like a silent dream.
"Mama," she says, "tell me a story."