BB Grey–musings

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I feel the air against my face,
tugging the hair from my eyes.
The sun sings its same old refrain,
assuring me the day has no end,
and this kingdom of dirt and light
is mine to rule.

Come here, friend, I tell a ladybug,
and study her through the glass,
a tiny iced donut from Winchell’s shop.
When I stare too long,
wings flutter from nowhere—
a miracle of physics that should fail,
but what are rules to the God
who wrote them all?

My brother tosses a “hey”
and I catch it.
What did you catch?
A red and white spotted salmon, I say.
Confusion melts into a smile
as the joke unfolds.

Then, out of nowhere,
he says, You know you’re my best friend?
I don’t ever want to grow up
and not be by your side.
Yuk, I say. Who needs girls?
We’re guys, and all is well in the world.

But the day calls us
by different names.
Brother turns to son, and then man
and chores must be done.

Still, I carried summer in my pocket.
I still have the photo—
three siblings against a faded sepia sky,
standing on a felled tree twice our height.
It became a pirate ship:
my sister at the helm,
my brother fending off crocodiles,
and me, the daydreamer,
with stories to tell.

Neverland isn’t a place you land.
It’s a direction you fly toward—
and that is what makes it real.

Those legs that couldn’t touch ground
finally landed once or twice.
I skinned my knees because walking—
not running—felt as strange
as not chasing the dream.

But this is a poem about being a boy,
and heavy thoughts are for old men
with grumpy looks and white beards.
I am youth. I can fly.

Remember this, I whisper
to the hologram of my brother
before he left—
a ghost in that tree.
I can still hear his laugh.

Hey, Juice, I call to my sister,
and see a helm empty of will.
The ship dissolves, then the tree.
Only echoes remain,
voices I once held so close.

I remember my father’s fluffy mitten hands—
how big and safe they seemed.
Then, one day, they aged and became brittle.
I held them both in my own
when he breathed his last.
The world tore open,
and I wept to be that boy again—
a father’s pride,
a mother’s little love,
a big sister’s that’s my bro,
a brother’s best friend.

A boy, long ago.
Old in frame now,
but alive—oh, how alive—
in a youthful goodbye.

and off I go…

direction of never land.