holding the door open, unconditionally,
like gentlemen. Because last night I grappled
with the coloring page, stickers scattered,
magneted to my fridge—by a girl, now pregnant,
who was once a child. Weren't we all children
once? How I envied you then—
My childlike faith that you were smarter,
stronger, better than I. How easily you swayed.
You came to my birthday party once,
gift in hand—a nail polish caddy,
polish in shades I could never wear—
while I hid my bitten-to-the-quick hands
beneath the table. Now, we could laugh,
knowing we both hid our flaws
that made us fast friends,
each of us afraid, that birthday day.
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