Remember that time,
when we were about twelve or thirteen,
and we thought the only way to
get over a boy
was to burn all of the notes they
had written to us?
We thought that if we got rid of the evidence,
that if the feelings were just brushed away,
it would be as if they never existed.
That we had never fallen so hard,
That we had never drawn hearts
in our school books with their names inside,
That we had never gotten nervous
as they came down the hall towards us.
It would be over.
The feeling would be gone,
and the past would be erased.
So we did it. We burnt the letters.
Do you remember that day?
We rushed home from school,
took the ash pail from the fireplace,
and while you filled it with water,
I ran upstairs.
I grabbed a pack of matches from
my mother's bedroom dresser,
and couldn't stop myself
from enjoying this moment of shocking rebellion.
I led you out the back door
and we dug a hole in the snow.
The paranoia was starting to set in
as we realized what we were about to do,
in broad daylight, with the world watching.
But before we could stop ourselves,
the matches were lit and the
papers filled with sappy sentiments were ablaze.
In the commotion, we were perhaps more
afraid of our own destruction than
what the act signified.
Before the papers were entirely burned,
we doused the flames and buried the evidence.
The papers are still there,
incase you wanted to know.
But I never went back for them.
I quickly learned how easy it was
for new notes to be written,
and how hard it was
for feelings to disappear.