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The violets didn't bloom this year.
Funny, how I notice that fact as I mow the lawn where we used to play.
I miss their little purple faces, peeking up from their homes on the ground. They told our story, the springs and summers when we would lay under the mulberry tree together. Fond memories of golden-hued afternoons, the sun poking through the canopy above us.
It's been years, but one never really gets over the loss of a friend, right?
Nature is starting to encroach upon our childhood, grass overgrowing the well-worn places we used to run and walk together, trees extending their greedy branches as if they want to hide memories away from the world.
But we are made of memories, much as some of us hate to admit. They spur us on, and hold us back, all in the same infinite instant.
I hope they bloom next year, those violets, so they can help me remember the way we were happy.
Help me remember who I used to be, perhaps.
Another funny thing, how a tiny purple flower with heart-shaped leave
ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.
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