Something I Forgot to Tell You When I Was Five and You Were Seven
Nick Bakshi
I did everything you told me to, because if I didn't, you said, you'd call The Lawyer. So I followed you around, hiding in your shadow, waiting for the inevitable, "You better or..." to come along and occupy my time.
When you turned the wheelbarrow into an adventure caravan, I sat inside, your sole passenger, and gawked at the invisible dangers behind your pointed finger. When you and Lollie wrote that play for dad, I performed without protest in your yellow dress and mom's makeup, cheeks burning brighter than any rouge could've ever made them. I did it because The Lawyer was a personal friend of yours, or so you said, and he could put me in jail forever.
I remember when I realized that The Lawyer wasn't real, or if he was, that he wasn't any more your friend than he was mine. And then I remember stuffing my face with green beans that I didn't want to eat, encouraged by your cries of, "They'll make you stronger even than The Lawyer." because more than I ever believed in Him, I believed in you.
Nick recently finished his sophomore year at Brown University where he was awarded the Lisa Beth Feldman Award for Literary Arts. He is currently taking a semester off from his studies to live and write in Paris. His works have appeared in Johnny America, Pocket Change, and StaticMovement.