The Trampoline Where My Friend Broke Her Arm

When I was eight I punched a boy on the trampoline where my friend broke her arm.


The same boy that scaled the schoolyard gazebo and stood on the roof

As my friend and I stared from the ground, ants in awe of the boy in front of the sun.


The same friend whose dad committed suicide when she was a baby

And wasn’t told what suicide meant until playground chatter met her ears.


The same dad that had a chronic disease that only God could fix but

Took too long before his human hands veered the wheel.


The same God that I would extend my arms to like a child wishing to be held while

The sun rose on Sundays, drinking in the Lord’s Prayer in the church down the street.


The same church where I had my first kiss in the blank, humming hallways with that

Boy who ran from the cops.


The same boy that lived right next to my best friend and would sneak out to meet me

On the playground of my school, kissing me like they did in the movies.


The same best friend that drew tears from my eyes every night with her

Effortless stabs masked as naive jokes.


The same tears that flowed as I laughed at my brothers when they would

Tell me stories about high school back when it was neverland.


The same high school where I first saw deep amber eyes focused on me across

The classroom with a boy behind them who had two dimples when he smiled


The same eyes that stare at me when I tell the story of the boy that I

Punched on the trampoline where my friend broke her arm.


Lauren Henderson

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


Opus Archive!

Check out the history of our pages here!