Maybe if I wear butterfly clips,
Bust out my purple MP3 player,
And dance atop my polka dot comforter,
Maybe then I’ll remember who I was,
Feel Childhood again:
Back when I didn’t wake up tired,
And my heart ached only when I dribbled a basketball,
Jumped over a backyard wall, and sprinted
Down a steep hill,
Or felt God’s presence rushing over me.
My heart always fluttered for boys,
But crushes blossomed from a distance
And out of imaginary gardens,
Except for my marriage to the out-of-tune
Piano-playing spy
When I was five.
Back when marriage meant holding hands
And eating Superman popsicles at birthday parties
And begging for sleepovers, which,
For some reason,
Our parents never let us have.
I fought only once with my spy husband
When he sneaked me a peck on the cheek at Sunday school,
And I returned the gesture.
But my parents only caught the kiss I gave him,
So I got in trouble for it,
Or perhaps just teased.
I refused to talk or sit next to him,
But I don’t think he noticed.
So eventually I caved.
I don’t remember how
Or when—perhaps I said sorry—
But we went back to how it had always been.
Maybe this is a childish problem,
But that’s a good thing
Because childish problems
Always float away
On butterfly-clip wings.
Rebekah Cook