We start at a brisk walk. We're wearing our cloaks, as usual. We call ourselves inseparable and we are. It will be years later when our friendship splits, and years more when it heals. None of that is own our minds. Sprinting, we try and talk about happy things: the books we are writing, the boys we pretend to be in love with, the places we are going. We are endless possibilities and summer rain. We are preteens, convinced of our greatness and afraid of the shadows in the night.
When we finally make it around the dusty bend, the double porch of my house in view, we are exhausted. In the safety of the light we are aware of our silliness. Our make believe world of terror gone as quickly as our childhood. We settle into the curve of the polkadot chair and write down our secrets, holding onto the moment like ice, melting and melting away.