I remember we used to lay down, backs against the hard center room floor listening to the melodic flow of instruments and voices, carefully accompanied by the soft fall of tears and screamed as the wind spilled into our sails, forcing us to reach the sky or get dumped into the blue-blue water and sang at the top of our lungs and canoed in the heat and picked berries and linked arms and stole cookie dough and danced and shouted and shower housed it and wrote our names in the boathouse and unveiled our deepest secrets and made burn-ons and said it would be forever
And didn’t tell anyone
Because we knew
And that was more than enough.
So here’s to our secret club, our cloak and dagger sisterhood.