I return to the three-year-old I was
visiting the great-grandmother
at her shack at the side of train tracks.
She was ancient as soured Lysol
and crumbling newpapers, her face so tired
it could hardly hold up her eyes.
My grandfather, so much younger
than I can actually remember, smiled.
My mother too, her face aching
toward hope on this cold foggy day.
Did the sun break through?
Did I climb on my great-grandmother’s lap
as she sat in a lawn chair by the tracks?
Did any trains come at high or ambling speed?
Were we too scared to go inside?
All I remember is one bent maple,
barely old enough to sprout leaves,
but there they were, falling at our feet.
