When We Was Kids

When did we first listen to the Universe? What did it tell us to do or not to do? And when did we decide we knew better? And when did we learn to trust our own voice instead? And when did we begin to doubt? And when was the first time we realized we were deaf?

When did we begin to  say "We" when we meant "I?"

When did our lives get really exciting? When did we find surprises around every corner? Remember summer nights of crossing busy streets and not waiting for lights and dodging cars and having a moment with ten people at once? Remember singing in taverns, and sitting on car hoods and leaning comfortably on someone's shoulder? Remember the snap shots that would show up later? Of you in profile laughing and listening?

Remember the first time you realized that those buddies were not your friends?

When did spontaneity become rote? When did we color wash the bad memories for good? Or did the universe do that for us? When did we choose our circle? And when did our circle break off, arc by arc?

And when did we move on?

Remember being alone in the fallout? Remember the things you did? Tiny concerts and free online college courses on Greek Mythology and organizing closets and picking up CDs by bands you never heard of. And getting dressed for work? And greeting the gardeners? And laying on your bed face down at dusk on a Saturday when everyone else was out and about. And voice lessons. And auditions. And exercising constantly. And writing songs or pieces of songs. And writing plays and poems and stories. And eating homemade soup alone by candlelight as the rain poured outside?

And going out alone and making temporary friends just for the night. And accessorizing your wardrobe with belts and boots and bracelets and berets and black eyeliner? And how it felt to be noticed by someone way out of your league? And being friendly when you wanted to flirt? Remember why? Remember broken dates and disappointments? Remember surviving and bitterness? Remember putting up walls?

Remember calling home on Sunday afternoons? And recounting your life and realizing it didn't sound lonely. And going to bed alone, snug, and secure. And lying awake wondering? Wondering, "When?" And knowing exactly what you were waiting for?

Remember sunny solo mornings full of promise? Remember crisp fall days and pony tails and tennis shoes? Remember when the trendy village of Broad Ripple knew your dog's name, and called his name from across the canal, but didn't know yours? Remember sitting alone cozy with a lamp and a French movie whose meaning you missed?  Remember checking your phone even when it didn't ring?

Remember the first time you heard Jeff Buckley's voice?

Remember parties and the promise of connection and feeling unnoticed or being used? Remember the promises you'd make to yourself, promises usually steeped in some sort of protection plan, insurance for the heart.

Remember riding your bike over the Fall Creek bridge on an early June day, and stopping to read a text? And the text was someone breaking a date? Remember the cottonwoods shedding, and white wisps sailing through the sun beams and time standing still? Remember telling yourself not to feel, and mixing your mortar for another wall? Remember the black man in the pork pie hat smoking a cigarette and the basket on his bicycle? Remember when he stopped to watch the river with you?  Remember the way the wispies floated and sailed across the turbulent brown waters, and he said, "When we was kids, we called that 'summer snow.'" Remember loving him for putting you at peace and in the moment? Remember wishing to while the hours waxing wisdom with him? Remember forgetting the name of the guy who broke your date, which caused you to get off your bike, and notice something beautiful?

When did we realize that life had changed for the better? When did we realize that better had past? And when did we question if better was actually worse?

When did we first love ourselves? And when did we realize we didn't. And then realize we did again?

Remember when that someone knocked on your door? And you were afraid to answer? And you did anyway? Remember how long you made him stand in the foyer before inviting him to your formal living room?

Remember the moment the first wall came down?

And the last?

Remember the first quiet night walk hand in hand and the fireflies and the stars? And realizing it was Saturday and you were not out and about, racing cars and slamming beers and outdoing your friends? And remember what it reminded you of?

It reminded you of firefly summers and deep green forests and the moonlit fields you played in and the headlights of the third shift workers at the foundry over the hill, and your mother calling from the front porch?

When you was just a kid.

When you was a kid, you didn't have walls. You didn't expect surprises. You followed dirt paths and found muddy short cuts. You hoped the old lady everyone called Grandma would invite you in for fried chicken dinner. And she did. You loved your favorite set of play clothes, the feel of your banana bike seat, and the smell of clean sheets. 

Remember when the love that finally knocked on your door got big? Bigger than you? And took over everything in your life?

Remember letting it?

Remember a few years later wondering if you gave up too much freedom?
Remember counting dozens of eggs and only one basket?

Remember losing a friend and then another and losing a job and losing a dream and losing your way? Remember with each loss wanting to feel those arms around you and counting the days until you could?

Remember feeling everything would be okay?

And realizing it's okay to love? And to be loved? And to let that be everything?
And enough?

There's a trick to life. And a trick to love. And the trick is simple.

You have to remember how you felt when you was a kid. You have to look for snow in the summer.

Brandi Carlile: "Just Kids"



Jeff Buckley: Edgar Allan Poe's "Ulalume"