2032

even now 

years later as i 

walk through the garden, 

i hear those songs we used to 

sing, the large stones 

protecting my calloused feet,

the dying oak tree

like i was then, 

broken and proud.

i trace what we’ve grown 

with my fingers:

the purple pansies, my mother

delicate, resilient

the fern, my only brother 

weathered and stern, 

my father

the weeping willow, 

all my sorrows in 

his branches.

inside, a man waits for me.

he has strong arms and 

a quiet laugh. he is stirring 

something on the stove

and he looks up at me 

and smiles.

i am barefoot and awake, 

for the first time.

i dip a toe into the 

cool pond we dug that summer.

i sense the darkness beneath my feet

and feel it waiting to 

swallow me,

the familiarity 

calling.

the years in silence.

the guilt.

the darkest hour that’s

just before dawn. 

i pull back. 

tea’s ready,

he calls through the 

half-open window.

i step forward, inside.

i take one last look,

away.

i drink my fill.