Thirteen

Freckle face, ponytail, pedal pushers,

and a bike that was my steed;

together we rode  along the country miles  to the foothills.

In the trees, I was at home.

Indoors, I dove between the covers of a book -

 A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, My Friend Flicka,

Thunderhead - to escape my current reality.

In the house, I grew silent and distant, numb.

Away, I clung to my friends, longed for their lives.

My dreams were  of Normal Life:

picket fences, milk bottles on porches, and peace.

The summer I turned thirteen, my father died.

So that was the end of being a child.

Thirteen lines for Susan's Mid Week Motif : Thirteen