I wish I could have made you remember

Ben Cooper

how big the world felt from the bottom of that creek
that ran through my old backyard. When we sank
and looked up through the bubbles softening from our smiles

to the surface. When we were the ripples of water running
from the delicate tap of a freshly skipped stone, lapping and melting
against the clay shoreline—how light we were,

how endless. When we would dry off in the ragged edges
of the undulating canopy as it gave its argument
against the daylight. We sat, day-dappled in the space between

two worlds. When we would peel the pucker pink
of summer days from our shoulders. The sting of our skin,
a sign—our bodies eternal in the bent of boyhood. And when the night crept

up on us while we were sitting at the edge of the waterfall, feeling
the crystal thick current streaming through our fingers. I remember
being afraid that you would slip from the lip and fall

into the murky water below. When the cicadas came to life
on the way home, their death rattle ushering in the cool
evening air. Back when the darkness meant nothing, when we thought

we could outrun the setting sun. But the sun can’t warm your skin
anymore—the stream can’t move you.

Ben Cooper is an undergraduate student studying both creative writing and philosophy at Salisbury University. His work—be it poetry, fiction, or drama—aims to provoke deep thought and reflection from his audience, exploring the absurdities of life, the mysteries of faith, and the necessity of hope.