Sunday, September 12, 2010
~ Dream ~
I hear this song and I am instantly taken back to the brook in back of the Wilson girl's house, where the flat rocks were each a room in our "apartment" and dried out bark and leaves were our chicken dinner and salad.
Where we married the neighbor boys, under extreme protest most of the time, and forced Dawn to be the priest in our church because she was the youngest and had no say, and the only reason she concurred was because she got to fill her pockets with the communion host (necco wafers or flying saucers split in two).
Where we laid on the rocks in the sun and talked about David Cassidy and Donny Osmond and tore pages out of our Tiger Beat magazines.
Where we would meet immediately after supper.
Where we caught fireflies in old pickle jars.
Where we shared secrets.
Where we would dream.