Whenthe phone rings I pause,
Look at the clock and realize it's her.
Same timeeach day.
We talk about the same thing, every time.
We talk about how wecan't talk.
Too many times I remember the bad things.
The things I don'tlike having memories of.

Like the time Mike and I ran away.
It was ourclaim to independence.
Men (boys) of free will.
We trenched our way acrossthe dirt path,
To our wooded lair.
Hanging our clothes on treebranches,
Placing our most prized possessions,
Nintendo games, George Brettrookie card
And Hardy Boys books
in the pre-dugcupboards.
Freedom!
Not a care in the world.

Being an independentsix-year-old seemed easy,
It was only because I had help from my mom.
Whenalone, I quickly discover,
Being young isn't easy ... I thought.
It's likeconquering the tallest peak,
Running an unending mile.
Being young isn'teasy ... I still think.