Storm

I knew freedom at the top of the staircase,
Throwing myself off of wooden cliffs to collapse
into laughter in your arms. I inherited your skin
and your penchant for not showing emotion;
my first dance was on top of your scuffed shoes
across the living room carpet, faded seventies brown.
There is silver now in the little hair you have left and
I am still not used to looking into your eyes- I blinked
and suddenly I am tied by bills and distance from you.
I have never liked to smell of hospital rooms or
the sound of late night telephone calls or
the pressure of wood against my knees as I pray
and I just want to sit on your lap and hear you
imitate Monty Python for me until we both can't
breathe: Sir Robin ran away... No I didn't! 
Even though these days we're more likely
to trade band names and memories and sip Coke
from the can on winter evenings with the Game on.
I have learned to search for men with callused
palms like yours, and you have decided to pretend
they've never had them on me. In your head and
in mine I'm still the six year old with the big bug eyes
and you're still the undisputed Giant king and
after the blizzard passes you'll pull me up and
down the street in my purple sled until bedtime.