I remember the games we used to play. You were there sometimes, visiting your grandparents who lived next door. We bounced on the trampoline, making games as we went. We were cats, we were dogs, we were eggs, we were famous, we were anything we wanted to be. I remember parades up and down the street with cookware and towels. I remember making music with a plastic trumpet and more whistles and kazoos than we could ever reasonably use. I remember seeing a snake in the backyard and running into my house with you screaming. I remember bicycle rides. We rode too close, so close we thought we would run into each other and crash, but we didn’t. I remember a love note left in the back door on an index card, and getting rejected, and playing the next day like nothing ever happened. And one day, it was gone. I moved. I can never go back. I may never see you again. But there is something I can do. It is something I will always do.

I will remember.