Writing late at night,
I can see out across the lawn.
The lights of the house creep across the grass like a light frost.
But the night is warm; a light breeze comes through the open window.
The wind sweetened by the 100 acres of wood on the distant hill.
I start to think of the decisions I have made
And had made for me.
Money lost, money gained,
Love given and taken,
Objects, hearts, and dreams broken and scattered.
Do you remember when…? She asks me,
standing in the shadow of the hall,
Looking quietly into my room.
A clock chimes as another hour
Of this already late night disappears.
She asked: Do I remember
Taking the children, when they were babies,
To the fair,
And letting them ride on the merry-go-round
By themselves? How we all laughed.
Walking them home
On a night as warm and dark as this,
My son fell asleep in my arms.
Of course I remember, I say,
Calling her in to read what I have written.
She smiles and touches my arm.
Remember putting him to bed, that night,
How he did not awake until the morning,
And asked if we could go to the fair again that night?
And how we went?
I remember, I say.
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