From the perspective of my childhood best friend’s home 

Poetry by Hailey Jiang

Your hair is brushed and let loose now, 
No longer in the messy ponytail 
You refused to leave the house without. 
Your braces are off, the metal 
No longer stinging your lip. 
I don’t recognize you, yet 
I know every inch of you. 

Your fingers twirl your hair, 
You’re nervous, looking at me. 
Your fingers twirled your hair 
In the same pattern as 
You waited for your parents’ answer 
To the sleepover you constantly begged for. 

Your knee still bears the scar 
From when you tripped 
On the walkway that was your runway. 
You avoided the cracks in the rocks after that. 
The walkway has since been changed, 
The rocks smooth and shiny. 

You sit on the sidewalk, 
Extend your right leg in front of you 
The same way you did at nine years old 
Next to her, your foot resting 
In the cracks of the stairs. 

Your hands pitch pebbles into the empty street 
The way you threw darts 
At the bullseye target in the garage. 
The ivy growing on the stone 
Has now covered the 
Chips in the wall from the 
Missed shots, only visible to 
You and I. 

Your eyes scan the dark upstairs window
In the same pattern you did at dusk,
Looking for the light of her pink lamp, Hoping to catch her eye 
For one last goodbye before 
You left. 

You climbed into your parents’ car, 
Hating how overprotective they were,
How you couldn’t go anywhere alone. 
Yet today you turn around and walk home,
Old enough for freedom, but not
Old enough to forget who I am.