My sister thinks
they’re a way
for him
to live in the past
but I think
it's an attempt
to rewrite it:
every inch
of wall space
taken up
by my smile
and hers,
by Jamie's
and Maya's
and Violet's.
Even his siblings
make an appearance
in the hall
as if
their falling out
was fiction.
We don't
come over often.
When we do
I'm struck
by how sad
it is
to see myself
as a boy —
my left
front tooth
browning
in the light,
every dollar
I'd saved
lifted
from the shoebox
I didn't think
to hide —
as my own
son shakes
the city
I grew up in
until snow
swirls
around it
and I picture
my father
listening
at my door
to make sure
I was asleep.