we were children whispering secrets in the mud,
midday with the sun burning our eyes,
our knees were scraped and dirty, and
the tips of our noses sunburned;
a carefree array of forgetfulness.

But time made us remember.

so we parted ways to our respective houses and families,
washed our hands for dinner
and the rest of our lives. And that was the end,
I had lost him to the wary eye of my mother
who disapproved of the footprints on the marble,
the stained clothes.

and in my anger, instead of washing both hands,
I secretly kept my left hand balled into a fist
for days and weeks. No urges by my mother to let go
were heeded, my stubborn fist stayed shut.
The doctors said it was normal for a child
to react this way after losing a playmate
and they let me be.

when those first months had passed, I found the muscles
in my hand weakening, I could no longer hold
him in so tight. And in the night
I fell asleep
and my left hand, unguarded, curled open.

a small monarch butterfly
weakly climbed out of my palm, its wings bent and uneven
and perched itself on my thumb as though
to say farewell and it was good being in you for so long
but I need sunshine too.
Its black and orange wings flapped, straightened,
and it flew off my thumb
and out the sliver of the open window.

although I have lost him
and perhaps the potential in me to fly,
I still have a trail of mud lining my heart
and faint rays of sun shining from my chest.