By Grace Ripperger
When I die, bury me in my childhood. Perhaps
in the eternity of one hour;
perhaps in a blanket fort whose secret interior feels like a forever weekend;
perhaps in the rage, the disbelief of a DVD scratched into no-more-movie past eleven minutes even;
perhaps in caterpillar fuzz on my fingerprints, its body an animated eyebrow on my hand skin;
perhaps in the car, singing along, alone, with the radio, commercial break (Mom, what’s for dinner?); in water slide spine ridges against mine, my back now splotched pink; in how cool rain refreshed me, swimming, in the warm lake, that’s how deep summer was; in a bug swarm above the uncut grass, their bodies visible only when sliced by the sun, maybe a circuit of neurons (who needs a developed prefrontal cortex, anyway?) or maybe a cloud or maybe an exhale; in the smell, stale and junk food and Toyota Camry and not-quite-goodbye, of my dad’s old car; in Sunny: silk fur petal ears (but watch out! buzzcut prickle if rubbed the wrong way!); in bare feet on bicycle pedals, and the spiky texture hurts in a good way, in an I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world way because everyone is still my friend,
because I am only one person—just me, me, me.
Yes, that—that will do.
Grace Ripperger is a sophomore studying creative writing and psychology. She enjoys writing poetry and short stories; currently, she is outlining a novel. In her free time, Grace listens to music, thinks about her novel, reads, and then thinks about her novel some more.
