The soft rays from the Sunday afternoon sun crawl over the house like a prayer of its own,
Whispering to the walls and wooden floors a golden secret that will wash the paint away
ever so subtly over the years.
You’re 10 years old and don’t know what anger really means yet,
At least not in any way that matters.
Our little legs hang over the couch together,
Singing a nursery rhyme or the song that carries your name to an audience of the crickets in
the floorboards and the old dog next door that can still hear our voices through the sounds
of the summer afternoon outside.
It will stick to the paint,
And etch our names for the next owners who will have to roll over the washed-out yellows
in a shade of white that is blinding.
It is an artifact to this time together,
Past long distance phone calls and pleasantries
Does the smoke you fill your lungs with now taste the same as the smoke from the grill that
filled the kitchen in the summer?
Do you see our mother in the exhale?
Do you remember when the dust used to catch on the light as we lay on the floor of the living room?
The carpet sticking to our backs,
Our eyes closed to Springsteen floating in from our parents in the kitchen.
It populates the front seat of your car.
The lyrics tattooed on our hands out the window
Catch the breeze in our fists as we drive, somewhere without destination, somewhere
We’ll recognize ourselves in the pictures on the mantel again