I had a friend when I was young who passed away from cancer. I wrote this poem Freshman Year in his commemoration, and read it at a benefit dinner in his memory.
It was a time when we believed in fairies and dreams and magic.
And we believed that any door left unopened must have led to fantastical places.
And we saw ourselves as mermaids and wizards and superheroes.
And we believed that if we tried, we would never fail.
And we saw ourselves as beautiful, because beauty came from within.
And we thought of ourselves as rich, because love was the only currency we had.
And we picked a dandelion and we rubbed it under our necks to see if we were in love.
And we were. We were in love with the world, bright and beautiful.
And we were in love with the sound of splashing puddles.
And we were in love with the crunching noise of the first fall leaves.
And we were in love with the pictures clouds made, sitting atop a hill looking into a deep blue sky.
And we looked to the sky, filled with clouds and stars, and knew that somewhere out there, there were miracles.
And somewhere out there, into the farthest reaches of space and imagination, we knew that there was a promise of an entire world left to explore.
And, in a seemingly everlasting childhood, that promise was all we ever really needed. 
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