Sidewalk Summers

Sidewalk Summers

Before the world learned my name

in deadlines and worries,

it knew me as the kid

kneeling on warm concrete

with a fist full of chalk.

I drew whole universes

across the sidewalk—

crooked suns with smiling faces,

houses with purple doors,

hopscotch squares

that promised if you jumped just right

you could land in forever.

The grass was our carpet,

cool and forgiving beneath bare feet.

We ran without looking down,

trusting the earth not to hurt us.

Dirt smudged our ankles

like a proof of belonging.

Water balloons lined the porch

like bright, trembling planets.

We launched them at each other—

squeals tumbling through the air,

laughter louder than any argument

we'd ever had five minutes before. 

Back then,

getting along with your siblings

was as simple as sharing the last popsicle

and deciding it tasted better that way.

We’d sprawl out in the sun,

arms flung wide,

eyes closed against the gold glow

behind our eyelids.

The sky felt endless,

and so did we.

No mirrors to question,

no futures to fear.

Just the hum of cicadas,

the smell of sunscreen,

and the certainty that tomorrow

would be just as bright.

In those summers

everything was perfect—

not because nothing ever went wrong, but because we didn’t know

to call it anything but living.

And sometimes,

when the light hits just right,

I swear I can still see

those chalk drawings

faintly shining through the cracks—

like a flashback to when the world was simple

and I believed it always would be.