by Andrea Kreidler

Created on: November 19, 2009

When I was two
I followed you
I struggled to say your name
"Don't talk" you told me

In black and white photos
your hand is on my chest
pushing me out of the frame
your wide smile

Once, sick,
you gave me your favorite
pipe cleaner cat, coiled as if
in a basket
I watched clothed animals
emerge from your pencil onto paper
You let me

Until I learned to ride I sat on your bike seat
and you stood up pedalling
Trees flashed by
We bought candy with peanuts at 7-11

We couldn't stop laughing at nothing
We had our own language

We grew up
We took different roads
I don't forget

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