12 years of loving the same poem

I have carried a copy of the Spring, 1997 publication of Roots Literary Magazine around with me for 12 years. Everywhere I have moved, I have taken this thin, spiralled book. I take it with me because inside is a poem that I love. I used to have my ex read this poem aloud to me while I stared off, soaring inwardly with each line. I once clamoured onto the stage of my first school, to read it during a small ceremony marking the retirement of my Kindergarten teacher.

It is written by a person known only as “d.” The notes on contributors at the back of the book lend me no help in discovering the author:

d is the minuscule form of the fourth letter of the English alphabet and of the fifth of the Spanish. It is always versatile. Inverted, it becomes a “p,” reflected a “b,” and inverted and reflected a “q.” It is both sensual and firm, an “a” with good posture.

This poem is simple, fun, innocent and wondrous. It encapsulates the season of our lives that have us reaching for the handle on the wardrobe, willing there to be a magical world on the other side. So “d,” whoever and wherever you are, I hope that you don't mind me copying your poem here. You will never know how much joy it has brought me.

on snowballs, wetspots, and my mom

i was having so much fun
watching the big kids throw snowballs
i couldn't throw snowballs
i didn't know how

i was having so much fun
but i had to pee
and my snowsuit zipper was stuck
but i didn't want to go home
so i ignored it
and peed anyways

i was having so much fun
but i was wet and warm and cold
and steam was coming out of my snowsuit
(that happens if you pee in your
snowsuit when it's cold)

soon i was really cold
and had to go home anyways
i had a big wetspot on my snowsuit
probably inside too
so i rolled in the snow
to even it out
it didn't really work

my mom had to unstick the zipper
it was still stuck
even after i'd peed myself
she gave me hot chocolate
she didn't seem to mind i was such a loser