The Visit

Last night I closed my eyes

and slipped into the past

holding time in my hand

like a smooth, round stone.

1970, I’m three,

my grandmother’s house,

blue wallpaper, white curtains,

milky marbles in a jar.

I hover in the corner

a shadow, a breath,

and watch me sit all alone,

paper dolls on the floor.

I don’t want to scare me

so I blow softly, brush my cheek,

hum the songs of the stars

to let me know I am there.

My little self looks up

open-eyed like the moon

giggles brightly, hands reaching

for the angel of light.