Bourbon Red

Katie Goodrow 

AP English 

The Child Who Died

Sunlight warms my golden hair

As I run freely through the summer air.

Grass tickles the underside of my feet.

These memories of childhood are bittersweet.

Each day holds the spirit of a newborn baby

With no doubtful worries, or unsure maybes.

I leap into my mother’s arms,

Plunging into the never-ending depths of her heart,

Away from harm.

Friday nights were always simple.

POP! Goes the popcorn, and my sister reveals her dimples.

On the couch, my mother cuddles us up

Like a dog embracing her baby pups.

When I think of my first eight years,

I almost burst into tears,

Because eight years ago we moved,

Into a house and lifestyle of which I didn’t approve.

I’ve lived in this house for eight years.

While trudging through adolescence, I’ve accumulated many new fears.

Growing up is not what I thought it would be.

I wish I could go back to the days when my spirit was free.