Each year the heat 

of summer

sticks to my heart like the jelly 

on our pb&j sandwiches. 

We devoured too many

in the backroom of your house.

The one with no AC.

You would open every window 

as wide as it went, begging 

for a little bit of a breeze to ease us. 

The patterns the light cast on us 

as it shone through the blinds 

was tattooed into my skin.

After lunch, I went on an expedition 

to climb the mountain that was your belly, 

full and round after eating. 

Your suspenders were ropes 

that I used to hoist myself,

higher and higher into the sky. 

My reward 

was finding the candy 

in your shirt pocket 

once I had reached the top. 

This was years ago 

and I am no longer

a pb&j over-eater 

or a daring mountain climber.

But the light that shone on us each year 

is still marked on my skin.

Tattoos are permanent, after all.