You were my one
parent that knew
how to be a kid. I knew the
endless joy of large mound of dirt. You knew that living life in this
insane world could be done with
style and
flair. You taught me that these things go
hand in hand.
You taught me to believe in myself and be my own best friend, as I showed you how to tunnel under the boundary lines that separated the territory of a half-gallon ice cream container. You taught me to be bold, I told you to shut up. You taught me that being strong didn’t mean you couldn’t cry, I tried to remind you of this, when your mother died.
We had a date, you and I. We had a date with a creek, some frogs, and a pile of mud. I know that we should run to the nearest mud puddle and have our fun. You have also taught me that it will probably never happen.