Last night I fell asleep
on the couch and woke up
on the couch.
I remember when I would fall asleep
on the couch
or on the floor, and Dad
would scoop me up and take me
to my room, and I would wake up –
as if by magic – in my own bed.
I remember when
we had a treehouse
in the backyard,
and Ian and I and the neighbor's sons
would play pirates and catch tadpoles
and eat thistles in the thick
summer heat.
That old tree is bare now.
The wooden plank that was our fort,
our pirate ship,
our stage for fantasy,
rotted away to nothing but
splinters.
I used to lie on my dad's truck and count
the stars
and twist fallen leaves into crowns,
or pretend to be a racecar driver,
and dream of the day
I would get my own car.
I get in my car to go to work,
remembering how
I used to play on my parents' cars,
and I
stop –
back up,
climb onto the hood of my Kia,
lie on my back,
and stare up at the drifting clouds.
I smile at them
and they smile at me, and I ask myself,
“Why did I ever want to grow up?”