The familiar sounds of bees pierce my ears
As I lay on the dewy morning grass.
Sprawled next to me is Tessa,
My younger sister,
Doodling with her favorite crayon.
“Tickle Me Pink,
Isn’t that a funny name?” I ask.
I roll over to hear her reply, and
Stubbles of the freshly mowed grass stick to my back.
Giving me her naive face she answers,
“What color is your heart?”
Not wanting to confuse the toddler,
I flop against the pole of the basketball hoop with a
“What color is spring?”
I was too old for her childish games,
“I don’t know, now hurry up it’s at least
1000 degrees out!”
The grass squelches as she stumbles towards me,
Waving her drawing like a trophy
She sticks it in my face, and I see her masterpiece:
A picture of her and me,
Lying together in the grass
On a warm spring day
“Your heart is pink,”
She points to my chest in the drawing,
“And so is spring.”
She points to the grass, sky, and flowers.
And at that moment, my Tickle-Me-Pink heart
Is a blossoming bud.
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