If I talk about the cold cherries.

The ones we dipped in the stream.

The ones that melted in our mouths.

That took us away. For a moment.

There. By the place where one day little girls would find sticks

and roll up their pants

and wade in the places where the ice-cold trickle dared them to resist.

The slippery river rocks just enough space for tiny toes to recover

before going back in.

If I talk about the hot boulder where I sat and watched it all.

Where I heard the birds

And felt the sun reach my heart.

Where I felt. Alive.

Where I decided THIS. THIS.

If I talk about the cold cherries, the river rises

Carries me downstream.

Searching for what used to be.

Longings of the soul.

If I don’t talk,

the river rises

Swallows me up.

Whole.

They melted in our mouths.

And took us away.

For a moment.

- Erin Frankel