I didn’t forget you.
I couldn’t.
The sun came through the trees
and I remember the dew and the wet of the
northeastern summer things
and what it does in the ways of making
light and it’s colors
banded, derived from one
glare between the front yard
oak trees of a house not
updated since the 1970s.
I came in slow to my driveway after
because I
wanted to see how much the post
with our house number on it had tilted
I didn’t

Forget you.
I couldn’t.
So when the water rushed down the
driveway and you and your children
stomped the water, and
made it a game
to see how much we could
rid of what’s been collected in
the rain, and the innocence
in the name of puddle jumping I didn’t forget you.
I couldn’t.

When I saw my daughter with tears in her eyes tell me
that she missed when it was less
of me
or when my son told me enough
he didn’t need my help
down the steps, or to hold my hand,
that he’s fallen down twice
I didn’t forget you. I couldn’t.

So why now have you fucking deserted me?

You have this
blue octopus that
you’ve always taken everywhere
it’s like the knit ones that,
while one in a million,
it’s one of those things that infants who
don’t get to right away go home
yet get.
Your cousin was one of them so your aunt got you one and it’s supposed to be this anchor
for those late home kids,
to stay calm.

But, no matter the age,
You know when you know something is wrong.
When we need the eight arms to wrap up strong,
even small
to show you all you’ve ever known to love has never left you all along.

The morning moon
lit
the water from the window
as you learned what life was like to share the tub.
He wasn’t big enough to do anything and I played
made up ukulele songs
while you asked me if there was enough
soap on his head to rinse.
The music and the words became the sound of the surf
and your laughs the sand at our feet. Everything
for what could emerge,
just a December day at the beach.