Across the fields

I used to run ahead of you across the fields; across the wheat fields, mud fields, and across the grass baked crunchy by the afternoon sun. I would look back to laugh at you with hair falling between my eyes and across my face, taunting and teasing, stirring your indignity with the right words, like snow, like always. Your head would spin and your face would redden as you tried not to laugh. But you would always push yourself just an ounce more, stretch forward as far as you can for the tail end of my coat, and leave everything flying behind.

I finally found the courage to ask the doctor about you. She said you mustn’t have been paying attention. She said perhaps I should stop thinking about it. So I will try. But all I can imagine now is your hair flying across your face as you turn your head back to look at me lagging behind instead.