“Letter to Myself at Seven”

(Touchstone Magazine Volume 37)

Know this–
he will wake up.
The green bottles
into the trash,
cushions from the pillow fight
gathered.
Brought indoors
where they belong.

Your sister, circling
out front on her bike
will come home.
Your mother will clean spilled
soda and dinner scraps.
It will happen.

Soon, folding chairs,
swinging your legs.
A woman who bakes
mini cheesecakes.
Into the Mystic,
on the way to meetings.
A blue book,
with something
about God.

There will be a pool.
He will jump in,
wash the sweat away.
He will build porches
leading to it, so your feet
don’t touch the dirt.

He will come to your school,
in ripped jeans, a bandana
covering his long hair.
And he’ll admire your ancient
Greek house made
from sugar cubes.