Ready or Not

by Elizabeth Moore

Remember when the rain stopped 

and we chased each other out the door,

shoes barely tied, 

hair cowlicked and damp,

galloping through the humidity of late summer? 

Race you to the treehouse, you’d say,

and our bodies took flight,

sailing belly-first off the porch.

I could have sworn we had wings.

“Come back, come home” you say,

and I wish I could.

I wish I could cover my eyes 

and count to ten. 

I wish that seeking meant finding. 

I wish I could drag shoelaces 

and fearlessness behind me

and outrun all of the time,

that took me away from you. 

Ready or not here I come,

but I’ve outgrown our old hiding spot. 

Ready or not here I come,

but you’re nowhere to be found.

Ready or not here I come, 

but all I find are vacant memories

gathering dust in all of our usual places.

Don’t we remember it like it was yesterday? 

Don’t we wish for it all back?

Pumping our legs, and swinging ourselves to the sky.

Letting our heads fall back and graze the topsoil.

Soaring on the wings of the plastic bags we fashioned into parachutes. 

Ready or not, here we come. 

And we hit the ground with a thud. 

Ready or not, here we come. 

And our parachutes have failed us. 

What we wouldn’t give for one last leap, 

for scraped elbows and dirty knees,

for that brief moment of maybe,

just maybe 

this time,

we'll fly.