Laughing in the big back yard. Running through the trails which wound around the tallest oaks and evergreens even a child couldn’t imagine. The homemade, wooden fort was somewhere in the middle, before the far left corner, where, backed by the fence converging into a corner, was a pit of last resort. Where they ran as a last defense.
Laughing in the big back yard. Running through the trails. Passing his old, blue bike. It was rusting. His friend had left it out for God knows how long. His inside panged and he couldn’t understand why.
Laughing in the big back yard; he finally found where his brother and their two friends, brothers themselves, were hiding. As if they were to stay the way they were forever. But they only had half an hour before they’d have to leave; maybe they’d be back later in the week. Who knew.
Laughing in the big back yard. I can hear it. Echoing. Across the hundreds of miles from the yard to where the four of us now reside. Separated. Like life tends to do to friendships. Sometimes I think our ghosts are still there. Stuck in forever with only a half an hour left.
