From the Wind-up Swing
My sister runs back down the stairs into the dark, balancing her sunglasses on my nose. They are too large, and she is beautiful, even though the sunlight is upstairs. Years later, my mother says, That’s a picture, not a memory.
When We Were This Many
A red-headed girl sits beside me in the parked car. I ask how old she is, and she raises two fingers. The morning is cool green yards, and our mothers come laughing out of the house like miracles.