If Corrie was there, she’d run ahead of Hayes
and me in a skirt with sparkles flopping up
and down. Sparkles on her skirt were okay,
but they could never be on the leggings or
shorts that touched her skin. She’d rush
ahead to inspect the tables set up by the church
for her brother’s birthday. Corrie would say
in her party way–the kind of voice a girl in a party dress
used on a TV commercial. If Corrie was here, she’d trip
over a spot on the sidewalk after I told her to slow
down, but she would stop herself before she hit
the ground. If Corrie was here, she would spot
the goldfish butterflies that looked they’d come
off of a crafty parent and teacher website.
“Goldfish! They’re my favorite.” Corrie would
hold one of the butterfly goldfish packets to her
chest, smile and say, “Hayes, look at all of these.
You can have one if you want.” Hayes, being one
who saw volcanoes and oceans, when there was
a playground, gazebo and other children around
us. He would take off to the swings, and she’d
ask the lady who just came out to the playground.
“I wonder where the cake is,” she’d say. The lady
might smile and say, “It will be out be out soon.”
If Corrie was here, Hayes would run outside to his
bike again. He’d make the motor sounds of his bike
as she tried to race him on a scooter. If Corrie was
here, how my heart would soar to the place where
children dream as they sleep. She’d sneak in his room
while I was downstairs, and pick up a dinosaur or two.
If Corrie was here, I’d talk about how dreams come true,
and not why our hearts sank like the designer of Titanic
when it hit the iceberg, split in two and went down.
By Rebecca T. Dickinson
Corrie's Season 