Tube Socks

If I were eleven, I would smell like sweat and sunscreen.

I would live in a neighborhood with a windy road and a hill so I could ride my bike, the blue one with the peeling sticker, and never get bored. My bike would have a broken kickstand. I’d have to lay it near the edge of my best friend’s grass before knocking on the door just after 9:30 because his parents slept in on the weekends.

If I were eleven, I would braid my hair, wear my favorite t-shirt with the rainbow and the mouse, and pull on my tube socks before lacing up the Converse my Nan called “ratty.”

Sun or clouds, I would ride my bike, eat popsicles, and go to the movies. I would strap library books and my sticker collection to the back of my bike, let ladybugs wind through my fingers, and always have a pack of gum in my back pocket.

When it got dark, and the street lights came on, I would ride home fast and hope my parents were too busy or tired to make dinner.

I would want pizza or bologna sandwiches for dinner every night with a cold soda and paper towels if I were eleven. There would be pool parties, sleepovers, and my eccentric relatives.

If I were eleven, I would go to the same school, live in the same house, and rest easy in the ordinary.

I would imagine in my room, count petals in the grass, and read. I’d have no idea that me, my moments, and my life would change. I wouldn’t care because I’d be eleven, and the world would be light, yellow, and twilight.

That’s all from the laundry room. Bed Time.

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