What you say you can't remember

What you say you can't remember

I see you tossing out the songs of your life, Mommy, the queen on the songbird float slinging lovesong showboat operetta gospel candy, Ruthy and I line the parade running up and down the sidelines being all the three-year-olds and we catch, catch, catch till our hands and aprons and pockets are stuffed and our little wide-open babybird mouths are stuffed and still there are more falling and landing all around us that we will never pick up.

I see you dancing and entrancing us, you are the Charleston, the jitterbug, the Teton Mountain Stomp, we are Putting our Little Foot all the long up and down of the afternoon living room under the endless green windows, three of us always three of us you, me, Ruthy; Daddy's girls we promenade and dosido, walk in the open window and swing, swing her to.

I see you laying out the cards of solitaire, circling the marbles on the floor of our Kenge living room, returning triumphant from the arrow shoot, always your ducklings behind you. I see you happy in our littlehood, flushed with our threesomeness, handsome towering scary Daddy making brief appearances to admire, applaud, take note, and tell a story. We are the world inside our walls. We are a flashing changing matching mismatched set of four, two, three, four, two, Daddy comes and goes, Ruthy comes and goes, you are always there. I am always there.