2042

I am from four numbers

and a few walls of warmth

where the sugared butter softens

cushioned against the white bread

I fought for. Holding memory was a task

given that every day was a blur

too full of life and love

to want to leave.

I am from four numbers

hovering over the red brick

running along a Monday morning.

The house sits still as the streets awaken

every blade of grass coming to life

the daybreak pushing past its shadow

into the hazel eyes of a young girl

clutching a small blanket

filled with hugs and play dates

carrying her secrets

into the world.

I am from four numbers

and I miss the solitude of an old woman rocking

back and forth like two blue swings

timing the breath between each moment passing

the old Calla Lily pressed down

by the inevitable.

I am from four numbers

and I’m coming home.