—for Bill
thinking about nothing 
I find my gaze resting 
on my right tibia 
at the ankle
 
the growth plate 
on that particular bone 
broke in a sledding accident 
when I was thirteen
 
the doctor wasn’t sure 
if I would end up 
with one leg shorter 
than the other
 
he hammered it back 
into place, and when
the cast came off,
sent me away to wait—
 
an early lesson 
in letting go 
as there was nothing 
more I could do 
 
for years that spot
stayed black and blue 
aching in cold weather 
to remind me—
 
but fate let my legs 
grow the same length 
though my right foot 
is shorter than the left
 
now I like to imagine
every bone in my body 
built with this intention—
to love you
                        

Our neighbor fifty years ago 
still lives in the house across 
the street from our old place.
I used to babysit their son. 
Each year we exchange Christmas 
cards and notes, the latest family 
news. This year, Pat’s husband 
died—and, my mother died. 
Pat writes, She was a real lady. 
When Steve was born, 
she brought over an apple crisp. 
My mother kept herself
to herself, was never one for 
phone calls, coffee klatches, 
or spontaneous knocks on 
the door—so I’m glad Pat 
has that moment to remember. 
And I tell her my memory 
of her husband Paul—
how he’d walk me home 
after a babysitting night, 
standing in the driveway 
until I got safely inside. 
He was a real gentleman.
                        

Before my family moved to Westridge Drive, 
someone stripped the yard of native woodland 
and planted pines in rows, too close together, 
crowding the slope. Grown tall and spindly, 
 
they had no choice but to cull themselves, 
the weakest sacrificed so the strongest 
might find enough food and light. These 
offerings happened when ice storms 
 
coated bark and limbs beyond bearing. 
There would be a sharp crack, a whoosh 
as branches crashed past each other, 
then a smack as the tree hit the driveway, 
 
blocking all comings and goings until sawn. 
Is this normal? the new neighbor asked 
when he trudged over, shaking his head. 
Yes, us kids told him, laughing at his 
 
bewilderment. The pines kept falling 
until they didn’t need to fall any more. 
In spring, there used to be lady-slippers 
under those trees, pink heads nodding 
 
on leafless stalks. I would search for 
their shoots in the carpet of needles, 
then track them until they bloomed. Everyone 
knew it was forbidden to pick them, 
 
and no one did—a moral compass 
easy to accept and follow—
save the flowers, save the beauty 
rising into this world 
 
beneath trees that shouldn’t have 
been planted, next to houses 
that shouldn’t have been built 
over graves and trails 
 
of the first people, 
felled and forgotten.