We raced to the woods, inflated with dandelion dreams. We burned for each other, hungered under starry skies for who we could be. Spirited by days laid bare at our feet, we cooled our toes in red clay earth, dug for fossils and buried treasure. We hid and were found, then lost again. We knew the end loomed when hot air stopped licking our necks, when fire ants no longer dotted the forest floor. Out of the depths of our childhood Junes and Julys and Augusts, before cold chains pulled us back home, we ran as if we were free.
“I write to live and celebrate each triumph with a glass of champagne.” – the writer