CRITICA

When I was eight,
a girl in my class asked me
who my best friend was.
she waited with a worried stare,

I mumbled.

not one single word came to me,
I knew at that moment,
she wanted me to tell her it was her.

I remember one time, when
the neighbor boy made fun of us
we shared a tight embrace.
so words won’t hurt us

Then, another day,
we shared one big perfect rose
we made from papercut.
Made it stand in the green hilly meadow.

I wanted red.
She wanted pink.
We settled on the colors.

One day she had no lunch money
I said I will give her mine
She told me she had no mom

but had only grandma.
I told her my brother did not
let me ride on his bike.

I told her my books and journals
were my secret treasures.
she had no notebook to write on
I had to let her have mine.
Soon, she learned the dark bloomed
and the light sang its song.