I found the hedgehog at the top of the hill
rolled in a ball, frightened by a car—or so
I hoped—its quills expertly splayed in self-defense.
The hill with an 18.8% pitch. The only link
between dorm room and lecture hall.
The one I sprinted down to meet the boy
who said he’d sleep with me if I made it there by midnight.
The one I slogged up after leaving my boyfriend
the night his boyfriend showed up. Though
I’m not sure he would’ve claimed I was his boyfriend.
We only slept together once. And not even that.
But even small things back then felt large.
Take living in another country, when a trip
to the farmer’s market was a lesson in semantics,
the difference between fresh and still alive.
Where even a remote road lined by shrubs of beech
offers up the surprise of your first hedgehog.
Last December a friend posted a photo from back then,
our laughs convincing us nothing could harm us
if we curled tight enough in on ourselves.
The same friend I walked home with after school
when we almost missed the brewery festival.
No inflatable long-armed man bowing to us
from the entrance. No underpaid employee
twirling a sign that read: Amazing Things Await!
Just a local gathering hidden behind a wooden gate
and a makeshift maze we navigated on a motorized keg
all while drinking from a never-ending stein.
Later I peddled the 18.8% incline with her
standing on the back, then fell asleep curled in her bed,
cause we both were too afraid to sleep alone.