My Perpetual Twilight Life

It has now been about forty five years since I last made a pinky swear, but only about thirty seconds since I broke one.
When I started writing this.
But I felt it was time.
It is time.
And, besides, it is not with the inky swirls of pen on paper that my words careen across the page, but with the dirt from muddied fingers smeared across jumper sleeves; with grass-stained dress hems; with the scabs of hard-won battle scars on small knobbly knees; with the blood spilled from the blood pacts of sliced thumbs on rusting tin can lids; with the itch of stingy nettle rashes and splinters in smooth palms; with the dirt layered on shoulders, cheeks and hair as we boosted each other to see the bird eggs in Old Meggy's tree each summer; and, most of all, with joy, with innocence and with Robin.
Robin.
For it is Robin's story I am here to tell really.
He could tell it to you himself.
But I think not.
It's been long enough. But, perhaps he is not here to tell it. He is still alive though, just not alive enough to tell it. He is alive in my memory. Perhaps he is still alive in body somewhere.
But I think not.