there are tiny heroes and they look like this

i remember 12 so vividly. other years slip away from me, some scummy residues and some hazy confections. years shift in kaleidoscope but 12 presses against the leaves of a special book. i said a lot at 12. i said no. i said no. i said no. i meant no. no was shoved under my nails, in the spaces of my teeth, balled into my summer fists. no was 12 and 12 was no. everything shifted, everything spilled out. everything was tidied up to forget forget, safety in the twilight and i slept soundly for the first time in 10 years. 12 was books, books, books and more books under the willow in the secret field. 12 was small painful puffy lumps where flat asexuality once gratefully mapped. 12 was watching coltish experimental friends hook fingers in the backs of boy jeans, finding dark little spaces for mouths and tongues to wrestle while i looked under confused lashes at other girls with admiration that felt scary and electric under my heaving and loving heart. 12 was unicorns and pink and plastic and regretful hands parting with dolls. 12 was pivotal and clear and strong.

today in the new sunshine my pretty friend said “did you see that little girl’s shirt?” and i gave chase, calling out to the two crossing the street. they came back, clear eyed and made of that 12 year old bravado i remembered like a blood oath. they let me take their picture and even seemed to enjoy me telling them how great they looked and how i was going to blog about them (asking permission, permission being so important). they smiled big then, pink cheeked with pleasure, sneaking peeks at my tattoos and my two other friends. i looked back once at them as they swaggered across the street, linking arms and i smiled huge while a picket fence mouthed baby laughed in his mother’s arms.

this day. this one.