An Evening Ride
Our histories are written on the streets of this old town.
That tree is not just another mango tree, it’s a friend
who sheltered us through unexpected summer storms; who
listened, when our hearts were breaking, eyes red
from crying over first loves.
These skies over our small town never change for me.
It’s a ceiling that reflects our memories and if you,
like me, look long and hard enough, you’ll see us
dancing in the rain at 17, convinced
that we’d love each other forever.
Houses stand sentinel over our childhood and grow old
like people do. Their faces change with time; concrete
facades show weathered faces but they still smile at me.
That empty lot of enchanted forests are now houses with
families who’ll grow their memories over our own.
The banana trees and wildflowers are gone.
The cemetery of beloved pets resides
only in my mind now, like friendships
that were misused and forgotten,
just like that.
I hear echoes of the parties in this small street.
I still feel my heart ache from hearing him call my name,
sitting inside an empty house, hands over my ears at 12 years old.
I still taste the sweetness of frozen Milo, offered by my mother,
one chilly morning in November when I was eight.
I remember sneaking boys in.
I remember sneaking boys out.
Our histories are written in the places we grew up in.
The town is different, the streets are worn but the crystals
on the pavement still shine each night. Under the glow of flickering
street lamps, we picked as much as we could and felt like the richest
explorers in the world.
Those children are older now, and so am I.