His Own Way Home

My son carries the heavy boxes, though I remember carrying him asleep from the car.

There was a morning— I don't remember which one— when you walked into the kitchen and I looked up.

Time takes the things you thought were permanent.

He taught her how to leave: check the tires, carry water,

His hands were not a wall. They were a railing: there when the stairs went dark,

You stand beside the new door with paint on your sleeve, your own keys warm in your hand.