New Jeanland

We used to measure summer
by how late the streetlights came on,

by scraped knees
and warm pavement,
by bicycles abandoned
in somebody’s yard
until morning.

There was always music
coming from somewhere—

a radio through an open window,
someone’s mother calling us home,
the ice cream truck
two streets too far away
but worth chasing anyway.

We believed
there would always be
another evening like that.

Another hour
before dark.

Another dollar
for something cold and sweet.

Another porch
where everyone we loved
would still be sitting.

I remember fireflies
caught gently in our hands,
their small green light
blinking between our fingers
like we had discovered
something secret.

We always let them go.

Back then,
letting go was easy.

We knew
they would still be there tomorrow.

Sometimes I miss
how little we understood
about endings.

Not enough
to want those years back—

I like who I became.

But every now and then,
when the air smells like cut grass
and the evening stays gold
a little longer than expected,

I swear I can hear us
somewhere down the block,

laughing too loudly,
running barefoot,
calling to one another

as if nobody
had ever gone away.

And for a moment,

the streetlights
have not come on yet.