Sylvia never complained
Always brought ham sandwiches
Grey eyes, blonde hair in ringlets
Tall, in sneakers,
Always in rugged jeans
a loose cardigan hanging off her shoulders.
Her face hasn't faded yet
I can see her standing,
hand stretched toward mine
offering me ham.
Her legs pulled up to her chest,
sitting in front of me on a window sill
Twirling the ends of a skipping rope,
as we skipped in unison
Running across a barn,
skipping over hedges
Watching The Land Before Time
in the dark, on my sofa
Pulling out a parting gift
from behind her back
I took it,
a goodbye stuck in my throat.
She handed me an airplane
drawn across a globe,
sketched in a zig-zag circle
She stood on one side of the ocean,
and I stood on the other
the drawing sat folded into a quarter,
tucked inside a square envelope
A part of me remains with her
(with every friend I've ever known)
and I've dreamed of reclaiming it sooner or later,
if we recognize each other first.