Cheryl Waitkevich is a 63 year old person, living in the pacific northwest, USA. She has spent the past 40 years working in health care and is now nearing retirement. She has wanted to write seriously since she was six when she began writing her own dictionary, making up all new words and definitions for such. It was supposed to be that she would go to college and major in English and creative writing, but hell, it was the 70’s and nothing went as planned. Now, however she is fast at it, trying to make up for lost time.

The summer of Yahtzee

on the painted bench, barefoot
on concrete, ground dirt on the soles
of our feet, singing our wonderland

songs, eating apples and PB and J
on white bread, our crusts
left on paper plates.

We threw dice
unsure of what that meant.
No hully gully or devils

bone. It was patio games. Even

though you close, made my fingers
stray, Even now I
remember every hair and dimple
on your wrist, the way your

bones curved against the
cotton how I attached to
your heart like

an orphan.
On the verge of something,
this summer between us.

We held our breath underwater.
Did back flips off the dock
in August.

In the chill mornings,
Oak leaves were starting
to turn.

The sun knew then our lives

would turn, knew the new cool
spun the air tenuous.
Knew then, our autumn would be

A place of doubt and
dares, knew the constant tick
of the turn signal click

would never again be
quiet. Knew we could never
again return to dice games.