mine had a lemon on the end

I’ve been away, cornflake boy. Upside down in my tree house. With woodpecker roommates and a squirrel named Estelle. Dreaming of pirates and swashbuckling good times. Eye patches and peg legs. Red striped shirts. Or are they white striped? Come along Suzy Lee. And sit beneath the elm tree with me me me. We’ll read picture books and watch the kids roll by. Afternoon sun and blue blue skies. Guitar that I play in my sleep. I strum along and sing real loud in my awake. I am Milo. I am Isaac Brock. I am the girl who sings the roller-skate song. I don’t have no car. But I go pretty far. It’s covered in ice and unable to move. It’s creaky, squeaky, old time creepy. Like a Halloween night when you were 8. With a harvest moon hung low in the sky. Big. Orange. Ball. When the sun no longer shines. Running fast, you turned the corner of your block and it stopped you dead in your tracks. Moon so big and close. You reached out your hand and were surprised when all you felt was autumn night air. You would have bet bubble gum that you coulda touched it. Do you remember being third grade small? I remember my Dorothy Hammel bowl cut and navy blue jumper with the apple on the front pocket. I remember Free To Be You and Me. I remember being free to be me. Running on the playground, hearing "Red Rover, Red Rover" yelled at me from atop monkey bars and aluminum slides. 4 square and tether ball. Pop rocks and kabangers. Little kid legends about crooked houses and evil old women. I remember waiting for Ross LaHay to walk me home. He’d sometimes carry my books. Sometimes throw these hard orange berries at me from across the street. Chase me around the playground then kiss me in his basement. The berries: red-orange clusters growing on trees with bright green waxy leaves. The kisses: child like. I remember a lemon on the end of a black plastic loop that fit around my ankle. I remember spinning it around and jumping over it as it slid under my other foot. I remember wondering why it was a lemon. I remember wanting to grow up. I remember being afraid of the 6th grade boys. Imagine seeing 3rd grade you. Time machine. You are a playground volunteer and you go running past yourself. In the jumper you remember, with the apple. With the hair you’ve seen in your class pictures. You’d want to reach out and grab yourself by your tiny little waist and hug away. Say the few words that you think might right some of the wrong things floating around your sweet 3rd grade head. Things about being special. And smart. And perfectly you. Twisting topsy turvy tinkerbell tulips. Twilight tornado tuning in your radio. Tangerines and Twister. Right hand red. Left hand green. Twinkle twinkle turn around so I can see you in that dress. Treasure true truth think thought thunk. The end.