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They were like small black eels but rounder. The tadpoles surprised us, swimming in the water, shying from the shadow of our hands above. And the endlessness in the tall brown grass that we couldn’t catch up to, it was always there until we left it behind in our gowns and caps. I would go back to that. Picking tadpoles out of vernal pools and promising to find each other in the network before the sun went down. We changed under that divine and supernatural light. We were tender. We were wild creatures of energy. The future was a dream you can’t remember in the morning and just as untouchable. You could fall in love at the mall and fall out of it in the parking lot. We convinced ourselves that the bad things didn’t matter because when we were together, it didn’t. Even the exquisite agony of getting up at sunrise to go to war; how could we have known we would begin to miss it’s bite? We were the wall against the world, hands clasped together, shouting over the din that if we didn’t let go, we would live. And we never let go. We took the tadpoles home. We took ourselves home and we made it. I would go back to that, if only to feel your hands in mine again, strong against the lines that would have shaken us down and exchanged our fruitful hearts for stone pits.