Requiem for My Own Childhood

I sat by you on the bus today
which I don't usually do
because I rarely see you now
although you still live down the street.
I remember when you moved there—
we were in first grade together,
two best friends in ponytails.
We used to sit on your swingset
and sing the songs we'd learned in class;
under my dining-room table
clutching our identical dolls
and drinking out of tiny tea cups.
The next year, I changed schools and grades,
skipped on to third while you were still
in second, and I made a friend,
then two... and so you disappeared.
We met again in junior high;
each one passed the other by,
a stranger from another time.
I sat by you on the bus today
and felt so cold having
to say.

December 1985

Copyright ©1999 by Erica Schultz Yakovetz. All rights reserved.
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