Early morning, Emma crawls into my bed,

reminiscent of years gone by:

At two: Every night falling asleep, curled beside me, on me, covering me.   I gave up on pretending: it was never any other way.

Her room, where she lined up cupcake liners

in little rows on her bed, the pastel paper containers

filled with miniature items she had accumulated: toy cars,

rocks, her tiny dolls which rolled over –Pinky and Cocoa.

Her Binkies.  I have pictures of her –clutching a Binkie in each fist,

one popped into her mouth.  When I called from the living room–

a stone’s step away–she always responded: I’m busy now, I’m decorating.

At bedtime –so early–safely tucked away:

I want to sleep on Mama.

Eventually, I’d push her off.  For a while she could only

go to sleep with me facing her, her fist clutched in my hand sticky until we both fell

asleep; her hand felt like my own.

I close my eyes.  Years pass.  In the middle of the night, or the early morning hours before I leave, she crawls into my bed, her hand my own.

I am 56 years old.  Emma

gone: disappearing to Seattle, or Chicago, or someplace else where she will

find her way, or not, falling and failing or jumping into thin air, dissipating.

 

Another day passes and I trudge from my car to the doors

of OTHS.  20 years.  The building filled always with people

wanting something, kids who slump lethargically, trudging from place to place clutching phones in their hands, locking eyes, heads nodding as they pass their friends, lost.

Summer looms with all its promise: long and lazy days sitting in the backyard, one day fading into the next, and another, and again.

Walk or run out of this life into another.

Today I will drive five hours to Chicago, stay with my sister,

see a former lover, who so many years ago snapped pictures, told me I

was beautiful; we fucked in a room in his parents’ house.

Who was that?