It’s the last of April.
I ride my bicycle on the little dirt road by the canal.
It’s my birthday today.
She has a present for me.
The sky is clear. No raging planes.
Just endless and blue. Not even clouds.
I imagine her in her navy blue dress.
I imagine her with a bow in her hair.
No guns now. I try to think about before.
Just think of the endless and blue sky above.
And her in her prettiest dress she still has.
Her wild, dark curls tied up in a red bow.
14, me and her, passing on to another world.
14 and not children but not our own people.
We’ll listen to love songs on a phonograph.
We’ll talk about getting married in Paris.
It’s my birthday. She loves me. I love her.
The war is over. She has a present for me.
A present made by her own hands.
A present she made just for me.
It’s the last of April. Almost there.
I can see her sitting on the front steps.
In her navy blue dress, red bow in her hair.
Box in her hand, wrapped up, waiting for me.