We were all one before.
just brother and sister.
We were the Wild Children
who climbed on back steps from balconies
and snatched at butterflies.
Too young to understand she and I
did not notice our brothers were drifting apart.
Did not notice that laughs now had weight
and clothes were no longer passed around like currency.
Age was unreal to us
but to them age mattered—
one was older than the other.
We are not the Wild Children anymore.
Instead wild sisters.
Older brothers left ice cream and trees for darkened smiles.
That family is only remembered when
we lightly touch hands and remember in whispers,
pretending the butterflies are above our heads instead of in our eyes
and we nod because we only ever knew the goodness of it.