Telephone: a tin can on a string

Poison oak, childhood bravery, when a telephone was a tin can on a string. Child hood secrets floating on a simple string between two houses. And I fell asleep with you still talking to me. You said you were afraid to die. All our tearful words, turned into steam. The cold tin pressed to our mouths.
In Polaroid’s you were dressed in womans clothes. You were so ashamed you locked them in the drawer. We were young enough to still believe in war. Nights spent out on the swing, wishing we could jump so high we could reach the stars.
The air reeked of sadness the night of the rain. The night you came over and sat on my bed. It was past my bedtime. You were sad, I didn’t know why. You said this is the first day of my life. I didn’t know what you meant. You fell asleep to the sound of rain falling on the tin, like thumb tacks being dropped in a bucket.
Little did I understand your dad had died that night. The rain made the roads slick, the visibility was low, and a semi came out of nowhere, crashing into him. I didn’t know what death was; I didn’t know that once you die, you leave the earth for good. I don’t know if you understood what death was either. That night, the night of the rain, we became closer than ever. The night of the rain changed our lives. We became the stars and sky, peanut butter and jelly, shoes and feet. We became close. And you said this is the first day of my life. I don’t care, I could go anywhere with you and I would be happy.