And I hope that your softball games are never rained out
except on days when your feet are heavy
and team milkshakes feel like
sprinting bases across a sopping field
warm streaks down rosy cheeks with lips pulled upward

And I hope that your hair grows back
that years of bleach only left marks
in yearbook photos and the old smock MCR tee shirt
scrunched up in bottom of your closet
and in your brave eyes and loud mouth
that spout ideas and theories and theorems
as quickly as a hand can shoot into the air

And I hope that you get to see the planes again
and that you dig your toes into sweltering sand
then run to the lapping water for relief
with your parents or your brother
or friends who deserve you more than I do
and that their flips make your chest feel like it’s up there with them
and that you get a photo that isn't too blurry
to capture the air and the kettle corn and scratchy radio music

And I know that the songs that we sang
when we were 14 and grasping each other at concerts
believing we’d not ever let go,
are not the songs that we sing now.

But, I hope that you have found new notes
to yell,
to shout up at the sky in the alley behind your house
or at the chipped tiles in your shower
or at the patchwork quilt on your twin bed
that describe what your hands feel like
and the adventures you’ve gone on
without me
and the wet softball games
and the disgusting split ends
and the airplanes soaring higher and higher
and higher still.