When We Were Kids

When we were kids, the only sound we listened for was the rain drops on the roof, the comfort of home. A tree swaying and cracking its spine; moves looser, breathes easy.

When we got to Illinois, the dirt was black and soft in our hands. We lived forever and life kept going.

When we died, I heard me say, “I’m not leaving,” and the ghost rose up and held the grave right where we stood.

When we were kids, home was forever and now that we’re dead, it’s wherever we float.