Looking Back

You remember Dad
teaching you two, my big sisters,
how to play Monopoly
the evening Neil Armstrong took
that one small step.
The sun would not settle
into the sound for another two hours
on the island.

My obsession
with a silver wheelbarrow
had not kicked in,
the red one years and miles away.
I remember those small steps
to the porch fronting
that rocky beach, the water,
this shrinking land.

Dad taught me
how to tie my shoes
on those steps,
how to swim
in that water,
how to believe in the number
8 and infinity
under that sky.

Each of us remembers
a different moment
from a different angle.
We all remember
the black-and-white turquoise TV
that framed history for our family
that summer events piled up
higher than the sky.

And there’s the view
of all of us
teetering on the edge
of a gibbous form—
tiny, blue, marbelized,
permanently captured
rising above
the limb of the moon.

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