The House at 56

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.