Do you remember the house on the hill in Smyrna--
your room next to dad’s office
and the view of the airport from its window--
or the time you fell and the stitches on your knee?
I remember your face
and Mrs. Applegate’s bloody shirt,
your small hands curled around mom’s fingers
while the needles danced in your legs.
“Unlock your legs when you walk, baby.”
But you never walked the same.
Thirty minutes abandoned by the woods--
Did you call for me?
Where was I?
Oh, but here I am--
sighing on a plane, thinking of a pigeon-toed baby,
and how this is all a little late.
I remember you, sister.
Do you remember me?
The seatbelt light turns on.
There are airplanes crashing in Boston.
There are houses sitting on hills.
There are children crying in basements.
And I find it difficult to remember.
From the window,
from the house on the hill,
I watched you fall
but I didn’t move.