Park Benches and Polaroids

Wednesdays

Nina always came up with the best ideas.

Her hair was long and brown

covered in barrettes

and she had a smile that 

reveled in nature.

She helped me hunt ghosts

sled in the backyard

and was 

completely fearless. 

Her art was scattered all over her 

perfect wooden house,

her love for horses her main attraction

and her pet bird would only let her touch him,

for she had a way with animals

like no other.

She was green inside,

all quiet witticisms and

adventure-lined soul

with the soles of her shoes

worn out so that

she never even bothered to wear them.

I wanted to be like her.

I wanted to be free.

She was the most interesting person

in the entire world, closest thing I had

to a sister.

I had my blond hair high in a bun

pins close-knit and stabbing,

leotard disguised under my jeans,

a common practice

when I devoted my life to dance at the time

(I was ten years old).

I was in their orange colored kitchen doing homework

before ballet class snatched my focus

in the next two hours.

She came bounding in 

and told me we should go for a walk

because she found an empty space behind the park

that was covered in tall grass and winding trees.

We skipped and ran down the hill,

racing across the soccer field 

(we ran everywhere -- there was never walking with Nina)

all the way, more than a mile

to a small tree that made us look sun-splotched

and ran our hands over its roughness,

picking at the bark. 

She climbed to the top almost

seamlessly,

her shoes long forgotten at home

while i stayed below,

too nervous to attempt to try and reach 

what I believed was

beyond my skill.

"It's like the Shire,

you know,

from Lord of the Rings?" 

I offered instead,

trying to match some part of her

intoxicating adventure --

do you understand how

wonderful you are to me?

"Yeah," she smiled,

and did her version of a Gollum impression

and I laughed and laughed into the setting sun.

She never deserved 

any of the things that happened to her summer soul

once we got older,

sadder,

hurt for the first time

by friends, lovers,

distancing ourselves

as we navigated through

this red tide of feelings.

But connected in our clasped hands and tears

were the purest of memories of 

being friends since birth.