Back in 2010, we slept on the same bed and smudged peach gloss onto our lips, fanning ourselves with our Hannah Montana flip flops, still sandy from the playground. On those endless days, we were entangled with one another, whispering and dreaming in sync. I laid on your sofa and ate packages of Girl Scout cookies I knew your mom kept in the freezer. At home, the fridge is littered with a plethora of neon papers – displaying things I’ll later translate to “NOTICE” and “BILL” and “FINAL WARNING.” But I hadn’t learned how to speak that language yet. I only knew how to pump my legs high enough on the swingset to convince myself that I was stomping on the trees, and together, you and I practiced our jumps from as high as our bravery allowed us. In your basement, we played Just Dance until your sister stole the remote from us, and I couldn’t remember that the night before, I’d fallen asleep to the tune of glass breaking in the kitchen. I kept fireflies in a mason jar on my desk and my mother forgot how to breathe. But all I could see were the fireworks we stayed up late watching, just you and I and our infinite childhood stretching ahead of us. In front of your bathroom mirror, we wiggled into our matching sunflower swimsuits and rubbed banana-scented sunscreen onto our skin. In just a few minutes, my mother would come bursting through your door and whisper under bated breath that we have to go, right now, this is urgent, she’ll say to me. But right now, the only moment that has ever existed is this one with you, and under the warmth of the forgiving summer sun, we will live here forever.
Emma Perring
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