broken bikes

of encounters

exactly ten years

have passed

since i last saw her

sitting on the swing

in the grubby playground

outside of the grubby apartment complex

that we lived in

i can still remember

her sad eyes and her happy laugh,

such an odd combination

for someone who didn't even

know the meaning

of the word

contradiction

her lips were lopsided;

one side curled upward,

and the other dipped down,

like she was unsure

whether she wanted to smile

or frown,

but she was content with the in-between

she was full

of so much life,

and yet,

there was the stench

of desperation

and fear

woven into her flesh

i asked what her name was,

and she looked at me,

with eyes that screamed pain

and she uttered,

with a voice that dripped joy,

a name that i would never forget;

olivia abigail thompson

i didn't say anything after that

i just watched her kicking into the damp sand,

propelling herself forward

and backward

on the grubby swing;

kind of like the indecisiveness

of her lips

she asked me what my name was,

and i answered immediately,

because i didn't have a contradiction

of emotions

existing in harmony

on my face;

william mitchell norris

her brow arched then,

and i felt a spark of hope

in my chest,

at the thought

that maybe the clash of expressions

she wore

would collide into one

but then she grinned at me,

and her shoulders drooped slightly,

and she told me

that her brother's name

was william,

but that he went by will—

she decided she would call me norris

i didn't question it,

and she didn't explain

she just continued

to kick her heels into the ground,

the swing racing forward

and backward,

like the indecisiveness of her lips

i got the sense

that she hated my name,

and that it had something—

that it had everything—

to do with her brother,

so i let her call me norris;

i couldn't bear the thought of hurting her

i decided to tell her

that i really liked her name,

because it reminded me

of summertime and playing in the rain and sharing secrets;

she just stared at me,

and i didn't understand why then,

but i do now

that was an interesting thing

for an eight-year-old to say;

but what she said next,

changed everything

because she grabbed me by the wrist,

and her eyes swam with despair

there's something really refreshing about you, norris

she left without a word,

without even a goodbye

instead,

she waved to me,

and i focused on her small fingers,

wiggling out a beat

on the air

even ten years later,

i picture her tiny frame,

hunched over on the grubby swing,

dirty sneakers pushing

into the damp sand,

a contradiction of emotions

coexisting on her face

olivia abigail thompson,

a name that reminded me

of summertime and playing in the rain and sharing secrets;

william mitchell norris,

a name that had

something refreshing about it;

two names that meant virtually nothing