july, then august again

i. in august

the dress was too heavy for august.
she made sugar cookies at the big house and we danced. 
my dance was folk and hers was indie rock,
and we threw stones in the water to make music. our music was circus spun sugar. it was hot dust. 

ii. in october

she made me a god's eye out of yarn and popsicle sticks. it was tightly wound and smelled like sunset. 
we laid our puffy coats down on the leaves and tried to catch falling yellows and browns. i snuggled into this.
i watched the banjo player at the county fair. she threw him a coin. i wanted one.

iii. in february

it was too cold to go swimming, she told me. 
finally cold enough for the dress.
my overalls were wet and stained with mud and ice. she gave me a spongebob bandaid.

iv. in april

i made her a dream catcher so she wouldn't have nightmares. 
she put on the old record so we could dance again, and i waved at the neighbor.
this time our music was tightly wound and scratchy. perfect for spring.
i did a cartwheel and fell. she did one and flew.

v. july, then august again

she wrote me a card and slipped the dress over my head
i put on her veil and traipsed around the pond, careful not to fall
again. she let me hold a sparkler and write my name in the sky. then i wrote hers too.
i gave her a hug. 

this was the year.