Eight
by melissaur

Everyone says, "Don't ever forget what it was like
to be young - five, six, seven, eight.
Back when a kiss healed every injury
and a spoonful of food was instead a speeding train.
Childhood doesn't last forever, so take in everything you can."

Like the trips to the playground with my brother and sister,
where I could have my own store and sell ice cream
made of sand and leaves that were warm from the sun,
and where I always wanted to be on the swings,
daring to try the "grown up" ones that had no back to lean on.

Like the comforting embraces from my parents, designed to protect me
from the stick-and-stone words of siblings who laughed
at their defenseless, spoiled kid sister,
who was, is, and will always be just the "baby",
who is meant to be lovingly pushed around.

Everyone says, "Don't ever forget what it was like
to be young - five, six, seven, eight."
They have nothing to worry about.
To my family, I was, am, and will always just be the "baby"
and I will always be eight years old.