Six

by Elizabeth McGinn


Poetry


chalk
photo courtesy of pixels.com

by Ellie Forster ’24

Lying on the pavement
My leg tickles as my sister
Traces the shape of my fidgeting,
Six-year-old self.

She connects the line to its beginning,
And its end disappears.

The chalk brushes against the side of my knee
And I giggle in discomfort
I stand, take a breath
And attack my chalk silhouette.
Clothing myself with a rainbow

Red skirt
Orange and yellow striped shirt
A green necklace with a heart charm (for flair)
Violet sneakers on my feet
Blue eyes
Pink lips
And brown hair

My back, preheated by the pavement of our driveway,
Is cooked by the sun
As I trace my sister.
The moment I finish she leaps up,
And dons a purple chalk dress and blue chalk glasses, to go
With her yellow chalk hair
While I plant a chalk flower.

Before we’re done our other sister ambushes us,
Spraying wildly with the hose
We chase after her in soaked cotton,
And as our mud- and color-covered feet
Leave the heat of the pavement,
We’re washed away.

 


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