We held each other's hands and spun in circles until I let go, and whatever position you fell in, you had to stay that way as long as you could. When there were just two of us we timed each other to see who won. I always won. You were too fidgety to stand still for long.
"Giggle" sounds like what it is, and we sounded that way every hour, every day, chasing frogs and climbing trees, pretending to be My Little Ponies and Rainbow Brite, me brewing magical potions from bits of weeds with mystical names like Crow Poison; you running, always running, arms thrown wide and hair tangled by the late afternoon wind. I made up stories to tell you about princesses fighting dragons. You knew how to tell a cardinal, a bull-bat, a blue jay, a kildeer, all by sound.
We were melted candy bars and jump-rope rhymes, the burn of an elbow hitting the sidewalk, the delighted scream after my brother set off a string of firecrackers in the street. We were a jar full of fireflies, we were cheese sandwiches on square Tupperware plates. We were a brand-new Slip-n-Slide and we were a tummy pooch in a ruffled swimsuit whose top would be flat for a few more blessed years.
Your hair was soft as dandelion fluff and your hand was warm in mine, pulling me down the street to the dewberry patch, where we were scratched up with thorns and sick on berries. Your lips were stained with juice, and they were soft and tasted like cobbler.
"Kiss" sounds like what it is, too.
We were pinky swears and the song of cicadas. We were homemade ice cream and Dr Pepper burps and mustang grapes and the smell of rain.
We were the tumult of a cartwheel falling long-legged and laughing into soft broad-bladed grass.