Sometimes I think of myself as a little girl and you a little boy, left alone for far too long at home. And we giggle and play with each other, content in our company, but a little anxious too, wondering when mommy's getting home. And we're scared and we're alone but I tell you stories and you hold me close and all the darkness in the world turns warm in your eyes. You hide with me in the crimson glow of the shower while the monsters prowl outside, and you make sure it's safe again. I burn the cookies but not the salad and we make it one more night without an adult looking over us.
Then sometimes we're old, really old. And our bones hurt and I'm sick, stricken with something or other and you're lost, wondering if your life's been wasted. And we wrap ourselves in layer after layer of comfort, our house a mismatched world of textures and softness. The food is warm and a fire is crackling and we play chess in our robes while the rain taps outside. No one knows where we are and we don't know anyone to tell.
But often I'm almost 23 and you're almost 25 and we are astounded by all the rainbows in our lives. I think it's significant that when we find them over the freeway or in the corners of our eyes that it never occurs to us to look for a pot of gold until afterwards, when we're reflecting on our spectrum, but I'm happier that way. It's never felt so right, I've never seen a statue come to life. I love you, I love you, I love you.