You spun stories like cotton-candy, conjuring dreams as if they were real. You taught me to throw a curveball hard and fast, until my glove was worn-in and home plate was littered with sand. You walked with me through the forest, dark eyes focused only on me as sunlight filtered through the long, spindly trees.


You laughed at my lame jokes. Your strong hands guided me as you helped me skip rocks over a glimmering lake, the sun fading beneath the horizon. You listened to my rants, my raves, my music (for a while; you could only handle so much bubble-gum pop). You drove me to school every morning and told me to have a good day. You smiled once I -finally- learned how to make dinner without burning it. You were the first one to scoop an ice-cream cone for me, soft-serve dripping down the cone’s rounded edges. I took you for granted, just like traffic lights and sunny days.


You washed the dishes when I didn’t want to. You bought me presents on Valentine’s Day (new hard-cover books, picked from my wish-list). You read out loud to me and played games in the streets on lamp-lit summer nights. You watched the stars with me, leaning back on a faded blue towel as we sat together. You held my hand when we crossed the street and told me stories when I couldn’t sleep. You were always a dreamer. Maybe one day I’ll spin cotton-candy dreams too.