We walked in the field behind our house. It was a shortcut to the dead-end blacktop street. The weeds were up to my shoulders, but you rose above them. That whole washed out summer we would play soccer down at the park, run threw the weeds, and kick around in the stream. That stream gave me nightmares. It force fed me ugly images of faces just below its surface. In my sleep you were never around. It was only me, and the ones that slipped under as they floated by and disappeared into the cloudy distance.
I wasn't helpless as much as I was shocked, and scared to learn who might be next. I was scared that it would be you, but it never was.
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