Skinned Knees

His hair was yellow, or at least that’s the way I remember his hair. He tried to kiss me. We were five.

He wore costumes, silly and hand-crafted by his mother. His hair was always tangled, he was always encased in a shell of fresh dirt, and he had an appetite that could tally that of a sea cow as it rakes its open mouth across the ocean floor. He was the only boy I’ve ever known who preferred the movie Pocahontas over a new episode of Goosebumps. He was the only boy I’ve ever known who would hold my hand in public with his head held high.

If we were together, we were happy. We were pirates and combat artists and firefighters and space aliens. We tripped over our laces and went home laughing with skinned knees. We wandered through his front door and shot at each other over the kitchen table while screaming out pow-pow noises. His mother would walk in and notice our bloody knees. She always rushed to the medicine cabinet to grab some sticky ointment and band-aids. She would tend to my wound and I would braid her hair.

I can still smell her discount perfume and see her working tirelessly in her office, making phone calls and addressing grown up things. She always wore pretty floral dresses and brightly painted smiles. I thought she was perfect and I modeled myself after her. I tried walking in her shoes a few times but I would always fall flat on my nose and she would once again come running to tend to my wounds.

My own mother would have done these things but I was hardly home long enough. I practically lived with this woman and her boy. My mother was upset with me at the time for always wanting to be gone. But now I’m sure she wishes things were like they were then, when I had someone else to terrorize. Sometimes I wish I could go back to that same time, when I had just two more people to love.

That’s the funny part. It’s always easier to love when you’re five. Love comes easily. Life comes easily. I still find myself reminiscing about the times I spent with that woman and her boy. And I know that I will never again find a love like that. I will never find another woman willing to tend my wounds at the drop of a dime. And I will never again find such a perfect yellow-haired boy; I won't find one who can hold my hand in public with his head held high.