The Boy From My Childhood

I still remember the way

he used to smile at me

from across the room

as if his boyhood hid his sins

and in truth, it rather did.

I still remember the time

we sat on the swings

as he mourned his dead dad,

reminding me that my dad

had been there that night for him,

but until that sunny afternoon

I had never known that was something my father did.

I still remember the day

I remembered what he had done;

how he layed his little boy body

upon the frame of my little girl self;

years passed with me

never knowing what it meant

until all at once I did.

I still remember the night

he came over

and we made a fort of

blankets and the swingset and other playthings;

my dad brought us store bought cookies

and we three slept under the stars

in my backyard, as regular campers did.

I still remember the afternoon

we played those games of tag,

yelling and crying and laughing

as children did.

I still remember the moment

I realized we were no longer little ones;

it was the moment I heard the news

that he had killed them,

and I shook as I thought back

to that cool summer night

when we were just children,

before we turned to darkness,

playing and dreaming as the innocent do.

I still remember.