Sometimes, he imagined them tumbling back in time
Before age crawled into their bones and “future” was just another word they couldn’t spell.
Little her, little him.
Little feet, little worries tucked into palms of bigger hands.
They were young and free.
They were wild and funny.
Her deep dimples filled half of her tiny face, his dreamy eyes chased butterflies.
Her laugh rang out like bells on a midsummer night.
And so long ago, his was its twin.
She was spinning stories then too, storming adventure at a squirrel’s pace.
He had once pretended to be a whale, an ocean, a telescope.
They were silly and giggly with so many rooms to explore
Some bright, some gloomy
Trap doors and endless caverns
Places where only one would fit
And some when only his hand in hers was the key.
Photo by Gabe Pierce on Unsplash
Better For That 