She tells me she can see them

the three of them

doing cartwheels on the lawn,

on the patch out front under the window

and hemmed in by a hedge so

if you stood on the sidewalk

you could barely see 

their small heads

and I see it too,

the crinkled smiles of something

more specific than childhood,

little hands in the dirt that wrap

around my neck.

Their bright faces mystify me.

I hear their laughter and

I gulp it down like medicine

like air, like memory,

and I wonder what imprints they

will leave on these walls.

I look out this same front window

and realize my heart has memorized

more than I knew,

how time holds all life,

what feels lost is never gone.