letter

remember when we could lie in bed all day, letting the cool, sweet air come in through the window, over us as we curled up under the flannel and down? Remember sitting on the stone slabs overlooking the river, next to the flower beds, whispering, and giggling, and not caring much about the crowd of kids with their glass bottles and smoking sticks who had gathered around to watch us? I'm afraid of not ever having that again. I'm afraid that this--this half-hollow, sleepwalking feeling I've got--is what it means to grow up. I don't want to have to settle for something less. I want two dozen yellow roses with butterflies perched on the stems. I want stick figure drawings. I want soap bubbles, and soda through straws and sunsets.