Sofia Dean
Summer of '07 We are 6 years old. The sweet fumes of honeysuckle are filling the air. And my friends and I can feel our nostrils dancing, our mouths salivating. We dash across greenery, chubby thighs are now folded on the soft earth. Mommy will yell at me for the grass stains already sinking into soft pink shorts that hug my baby fat tight. But I am not thinking of that. Tiny hands blend with the branches of a bush, abundant in our afternoon treat, finding their way to the brightest honeysuckles popping heads off of stems pulling from the bottom string. I wasn’t sure what it was called, and I still do not know. All that matters is that it unleashes sweet, sweet juices that pass through the pathway in between my sprouting two front teeth. A gap that will one day be of no use. But I am not thinking of that. Refreshing splendor travels down my throat, filling my blooming belly, and laughter comes next
I lift my tiny head to thank the sun for this glorious day. My caramel skin growing darker as my friends’ cheeks are painted pink. Our mamas will scold us for not wearing sunscreen. But we are not thinking of that. Burps are escaping our mouths, drunk on honeysuckle. We will sprint into the house cool air rushing across our skin, Longing for another hug from the sun.